


The Night Kingdom

by momomasoch



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Brother/Sister Incest, Chronic Illness, Cousin Incest, Crossdressing, Death, F/F, F/M, French Revolution, Gang Rape, Grooming, Historical, Infidelity, Molestation, Murder, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Soldiers, Teacher-Student Relationship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 72,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: Soldiers cavort with queens, queens carry on with servants, royalty mingling with commoners, and countries are falling apart.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second completed novel, which I wrote in around 2010-2011, by hand. I was still discovering my writing style, and as such, it is rather unpolished, indulgent, and sometimes even nonsensical. I thought to post such an old work here for posterity, and my own nostalgia, in spite of its many flaws: particularly, a half-hearted commitment to dark content, and many plot threads remaining unresolved. However, I find myself still fond of some of the characters, and appreciative of it as an accomplishment. It is a clumsily-worded love letter, of sorts, to the classic shoujo works I read in my adolescence; the sort which only imitates such genuine greatness, but, hopefully, can find its own audience.

There had never been so lavish a celebration: scarlet, gold, royal blues, scraps of shimmering paper in every hue rained brilliantly down upon the cobblestone; flags of proud nationale hung out of every window, billowing in the wind thick with luscious smells of crystallized fruit and wine, glazed roasts and sweet-cakes, fresh loaves of brown bread; a sea of admirers swarming the streets, straining to glimpse their young Crown Princess riding by in a carriage pulled by half a dozen pale mares.

Following her closely was that new colonel, the one who had just been promoted to such lofty ranks, and in the process unwittingly gathered countless affections of girls in burst-bloom, who twittered and fluttered in joy, hiding behind their fans whenever he neared their direction, despite his extravagantly solemn, though uncruel, demeanor. 'The charm is in his wintry farce and summer kindness', the ladies swooned. 'Meaning, in his pocket book.' The men grumbled, feeling unnursed. He was doubling as the child-royalty's personal escort for the day, dressed in full military regalia atop a midnight stallion, face stern-set in spite of the jubilant festivities. His gloved hand gingerly held her delicate, chalk-pale one, her languid arm extended through the coach window.

"Oh, Dominique!" She cried, face flushed. "All this for me! Mama and papa will be so proud; their little daughter now the ruler of a whole country; my marriage the binding link between our two grand empires! Alda, oh, my sister Alda, she will be overjoyed when she comes to visit!"

Dominique straightened the brass clasps on his vermilion coat. "I'm glad you're so eager, your Highness." He refrained from mentioning that no transportation means, by horse or carriage, could reach the palace within even multiple weeks' time.

"Oh, but my husband―will he be kind, do you think, _monsieur_? Mama said but a few words of my duty as a wife, something of lying back on my wedding night―and won't that be this evening―?" naïve eyes, sea blue, inquired up at him. She reached up and swept a dark curl away from her cheek, brushing against a fine cluster of emeralds hanging from one ear.

The Knight coughed and tightened the reins of the horse, urging it to go faster. "Only―only the King can show you _that_ , my Lady."

"But won't he think higher of me if his bride is not ignorant? Just a few instructions, a vague description, that's all I ask." Anya persisted, fire creeping into her voice.

"I cannot."

"But I insist. Oh, _please_ ―tell me, what is it you desire? Once I am crowned, I'll give you anything you wish! And in return, I entreat you to just do me this one tiny favor."

"Your Highness―"

"Ah! I see, are you still too shy? Well then, you may call me Anyali, or simply Anya. Mama and papa called me that all the time, over tea and sandwiches at luncheon, when I roamed the garden with storybooks in my lap, trapping the occasional green-nibbling rabbit in my bonnet..." Her voice gave way to dreamy nostalgia, and his hand faltered around hers.

Yes, those sweet, good days had stretched indeterminably into blissful oblivion: the horse-back riding incident, when she had broken her leg into two pieces, and awoke with her dear older sister blotting at her feverish brow by her side, before being sent out by the fussy nurse; the silver teapot and matching cups encrusted with gems and worth thousands, that she was permitted to drink from only during special balls and parties, and Alda was not permitted at-all; waking on Christmas day, to find laid on her bed a new pink swirling dress of feather-light material and that heavy peacock-green ballgown with a small rip of the side, now all tucked away in her wardrobe back in her home country, never again to touch her flesh; oh, how she cherished those wondrous days!

But now, now she would have whole rooms filled with exquisite dresses, corsets, and blouses, gilded with gold and plumed with silver! To be Queen was a most overwhelming happiness indeed!

The dark blackbird beside her briefly rubbed his thumb over hers, as if to shake her back to reality, but without overstepping boundaries. "If I relinquish, there will be consequences. You may be the loveliest ruler this kingdom has ever known, but you are still a child in age."

"There shall be none, only joy and satisfaction! Don't worry, as long as I am not suspect to see the groom before our union, they will think nothing!"

She received no reply in turn, only the stern-set line of the colonel's mouth, and shadowed eyes that refused to look at her beneath the brim of the cap. His fingers were clenched tight around hers, like spider legs.

"I do not wish to think of what will happen when those robust petals of yours wilt, once plucked." He murmured, but it was lost among the wind and paper scraps, as the parade rode onwards.

* * *

Slightly shaking, gloved hands ghosted along her fragile shoulders, the sides of her winged ribcage, her navel, and pulling away slightly until cupping her knees. He knelt before her, surrounded by the divine works of art, composed by lost blue period men and mavericks of misfortune, the Crown Princess' personal chambers dark and noiseless except for soft, ragged breathing and the cloying smell of perfume.

"Is―is this―correct? I mean, is this how it's really―?" Anya's girlish voice trembled as badly as her frame beneath his fingers, which only gave an illusionary waft of warmth, carefully distanced, as he refused to actually lay against her. He knelt on the plush carpeting while she sat on the bed, her knees level with his throat, his lips at her lap, though of course, actual touch was forbidden; the only thing in his hands now were rich bunches of fabric from her pale ceremonial grab, pushed aside and out of the way.

"Shall I continue?" He asked, voice low and strong.

She gave an indignant start, but her legs immediately closed. "Please! I am to be Queen, I can endure a little more! Tell me, what is next?"

"Next? Next, I will remove the corset strings, and the fabric around your leg, _here_ , will be shifted and tucked away, and the―"

"The King will merely undress me, is that all? No, there must be something―ah, _intimate_ , my mother said―between now and the night's waning. Is this really how children are made? Why, I've had butlers come undress me plenty of times, and I've never―nevertheless, being childish―continue!"

"If I were to continue, _madame_ , there will be pain, and a great deal of discomfort."

"Nonetheless!" She refused to budge, despite the slight indrawn breath when he brushed against the softness of her thigh.

"If I were to, we'd be doing exactly what the King is to do to you tonight. And in that circumstance, I would lose my head, and you would be ashamed."

"―Lose your _head?_ "

He nodded, and reached for her hands―she flinched, assuming he was just about to pin them―but he only held them within his own, as if in prayer. "Please. This is the only favor I shall ever ask of you, _please_ , don't inflict torture upon yourself out of mere curiosity and impatience. Others have met their death that way."

She watched him, a pang of emerald agony twisting deep within her, upon seeing that bowed head, and reverent closed eyes. "...I allow it, then. I relinquish. Thank you, for showing me at least this much. It has been very―informative."

In a small voice, she ventured, "Then, one last thing―if not all the way through, then at least show me how it will begin."

Apparently deeming it not too outlandish a request, at least in comparison to her previous, he gathered himself to his full height, only to quickly bend over her again, long fingers on her cheeks, firmly holding her jaw, soft, wheat-colored wisps of hair brushing her forehead. And then, like that, there was a softness she had never known, and an instant later, it was done, leaving her with only a furious heat burning her cheeks and a telltale dampness on her mouth.

"There. You may open your eyes now."

She did so, unaware she had ever closed them in the first place or whether the darkness had just swallowed her up. She saw he already had turned away, and was now gathering his cap off the floor.

"And in showing you that beginning of intimate matters, which I am not to be privy to anymore, do you understand?, I fear there will only be another foul thread beginning." He said, unsettled at his own actions, as if he too could feel the curious squirming inside.

Now she was silent in turn, smoothing out the material of her rumpled dress. "...Dominique, what did you mean by, you would lose your head?"

"Worse things than I hope you ever will know. Everything is not gilded in gold, on the streets of the wealthy and blue-blooded."

"I'm afraid I don't understand your warning. What is it you mean? Speak plainly."

"Only this: in masquerade balls, guests hide their faces with masks of swines and other such beasts. However, there are some who wish for the celebrations never to end, and wear a layer of civility in public view. Be wary, in deciding who is genuine or not."

"Still, you talk in riddles! Surely my reign is not so dreaded, or has my reputation already been blackened by the stains of my predecessors?"

"You are indeed beautiful, your Majesty, but pray that you are not made a mere pretty decoration of the throne."

"By whom? The King? A foreign good, is that all I'm seen as? I am no fanciful import or lavish prize, look; did you see all the gifts, the crowds of eager populace? Proof of adoration." She smiled indulgently, yet her gaze could not help but flicker.

"―Come now, do you need assistance dressing? I'll take you to your changing room, where the maids will apply various embellishments before the ceremony."

"Can't I walk myself? I think I'd prefer to be alone―in my excitement."

"I apologize, but never again. As Queen, you forfeit privacy; the public is permitted to have audiences with you, which you are expected to grant, as you are to set an example for them, at any hour they choose. Now, after you are properly dressed, you are to be escorted to the dining hall, where His Highness is arranged to meet you."

"But, what if the servants try to engage me in small-talk, and keep me? What shall I do? What shall I say?" She fluttered about, shifting from foot to foot like an anxious butterfly.

"They won't. No one of their status is permitted to speak to you, unless you speak first."

"How odd! Does this mean all my balls will be mute unless I make a comment? And all my meals will be silent?"

"Aside from the regular appearance of the servers, you will dine alone with the King. There, you two can converse freely." He patiently explained.

"Oh, then I hope he's quite the conversationalist! I do detest silence."

The colonel said nothing, and merely ushered her out, into the hallway and adjacent room, where a young girl gently took the cuff of her sleeve and motioned to follow her behind the changing screen.

"If that is all, then I will be taking my leave now. I will attend the ceremony later, to keep watch over you until the duration of it is finished. I bid you a very happy future."

Anya turned, straining to catch the last thread of familiarity she had. "Wait! Must you―?"

But she was left alone, and, as she was reminded by the gentle tugging, it was time to make herself presentable.

* * *

The young bride met the groom at approximately two hours past noon, her face palened and radiant with joy, cheeks delicately pink-powdered, lips painted and dark-brown hair elaborately curled and piled atop her skull in a formal fashion, her smile pleasant but infused with a kind of determination, that incited in all who viewed it a sense of fearful admiration, for it was then she most resembled the regal, blood-hungry soldiers her country had been infamous for in the past.

"Presenting, the Crown Princess, imminent Queen of Mondediolle, Anyaliavich Belovarezhnaya!" 

She strode forward on scarlet velvet, spreading the edging of her dress apart in an elegant gesture, inclining her head until all she could see were the approaching feet of her future husband.

At last, she raised her eyes and gathered her dress, finding herself staring at her betrothed, for she had not expected him to look so much like a man, even though there was barely two years' time between them. His hair was appropriately powdered and curled just so, his wardrobe smart and solemn. His jaw line was strong, brows both thick, his nose and mouth masculine enough, neither protrudent nor timidly feminine, his hands enormous compared to her own tiny pale ones, but what she immediately noticed, and couldn't help but dreading, were his small, dark eyes above all, distant and cold, as if she was staring down into a grave. There was no warmth in his expression, no jubilant, or even bashful, light in his gaze. Rather, he was like a statue, and she hesitated to take the proffered hand as he pragmatically knelt to kiss it, as if she too would become such an indifferent thing.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my wife." He said, and allowed her limp hand to slip free from his own, as if it were a fish congealed with oil. He gave her, at last, a practiced smile, but it gave her no reassurance or comfort.

"Your Highness, if I may," She went on, despite the sudden hardening of his narrow gaze. "I would like to know, when I may see my family again? The King and Queen of Caspilene would be honored to come visit your beautiful country, and I am sure your kingdom would be most hospitable to my older sister."

"Visit?" There was a slight inflection in his tone, as if she was speaking in jest. "I was not informed that my betrothed was such a joker. Your sense of humor is most charming, _madame_ , but I request you exercise it no more. There will be no visits from relatives of Caspilene," He announced, and her body felt cold. "Not a stitch of clothing, not a crumb of sweet-pie, not a lover, no one from your home country is permitted to follow you. You are a woman of Mondediolle now, and to do otherwise would most certainly cause alarm to your subjects and loyalty to be questioned."

The sparkling marble floor and the carriage-sized, brass and gold chandeliers seemed to sway before her eyes. She waited, perhaps for him to continue, "...But, once the suspicion of foreign blood dies down, I would be happy to allow them your company." yet no such words were uttered. Her shoes clicked anxiously against the floor, and she had to steady herself for several breaths.

The moment passed, and dark blue eyes opened, filled with a weaker sense of purpose than before. "No, it's nothing. I am fine."

But he was gone, leaving her arms full of her riches and heart ready to burst, for, for some unfathomable reason, in that moment, at thirteen years old, the soon-to-be queen knew a loneliness greater than anything she had ever felt. It felt, in that moment, she was trading a life of sun-kissed delights and bare freedoms for that of a life of martyrdom, of bondage, and power over a kingdom of night.

* * *

Predictably, the young Crown Princess was wed to her groom, dressed in the finest of snow-hued gowns, draped in thick furs and strung in jewels, welcomed by the royal court and common people both, surrounded by beauty, saluted by the country's defenders, all hailing her magnificent title, her name an oath of worship for histories to come―spoiled only slightly by the small sob emitted from the new ruler, overwhelmed by rapture, surely.

What a glorious era! It was one that would last for centuries to come!


	2. Chapter One

Within the span of two years following Queen Anyaliavich's crowning, there were indeed, many changes that fell upon the country, just as there were an unfathomable number of internal transitions within the still-learning ruler herself.

Anya had matured into a fine young woman of fifteen, and was known throughout the land as a thoughtful leader with an air of independence and, as was evidenced by any guest at the royal galas, was quite the talker. She spoke of jewels and furs and of the latest news―most peculiar was that she often read the common paper, silly propaganda pamphlets and all―but her expression was always one of bleakness, her smile almost brittle. There were rumors that she was unable to become pregnant, as her elder sister was also cursed with the same affliction, but those were quickly put to an end when another spread like wildfire: it wasn't the Queen's inner workings that prevented her from being with child, but a rift in intimacy between the royal couple themselves. Others claimed she had a lover on the side; the rumors came and went, a few cycled viciously in high court conversation while others petered out and died by the time morning fog rolled in, but no matter which fate the vicious slander met, each word stuck a blow against Her Majesty, and so she was still met with a certain degree of hostility from the poor and suspicious.

Love life aside, the little Queen was dreadfully homesick, and sometimes shirked hours and shunned outsiders alike to wade in her memories. She had sent countless letters to her parents and sister, but none of them had been answered―she could've sworn she had glimpsed a flash of torn yellow envelope in the fireplace, but it had vanished with the wind before she could catch it. She answered the requests of regular audiences, and they were permitted to watch any facet of her daily life they chose, even bathing! She had been so ashamed and flustered after she was first followed into the washing room, that she had refused to set foot in the tub for several days. But now, she had grown ritually accustomed to the suffocating glory of her life. She hardly tried to hide her childish figure behind the wet-cloth now, allowing her maid to quickly scrub off the suds, long having resigned herself to not even being able to lift the soap for herself. Every evening, she retired to bed in a simple flour-pale gown near midnight after two hours of private reading, and then she slunk beneath the thick quilts to lie beside the man whom she had never shared another kiss with since her wedding day, for their wedding night, contrary to the stern colonel's warnings, had yielded nothing at all. That, at least, she was immensely grateful for: she had a feeling his mere shadow against her would cause bruises.

Her daily schedule consisted of various delightful hobbies: opera, courtly gossip, the occasional gamble-game, even horseback riding, while the King pursued his own activities, and left early in the morning, before she awoke. It was not a terrible situation; she was well-fed, respected, adored and loved, and given all the freedom in the world to go to any event she so desired within the palace walls, but still, Anya was like a restless fledgling, who very much resented her flight being restricted. Her captured heart still belonged to her home country, while her mind remained miserable and dulled by the repetitive life in the cage of Mondediolle.

At least, even in the darkest of days, she had the small mercies of friendship, particularly a set of triplets, whom had only been afforded into one of her celebrations a single time. Since then, their meetings were few, but their letters long and arduous, for even an ink blot or wax seal was some companionship, better than cooling beds, and the aches of flowers forced to bloom before their time.

Cornelius, the eldest by a mere span of minutes, was very much a storybook-like charming prince, whom she enjoyed lengthy conversations with; he had a warmth that her husband did not, and a light, balanced sense of humor that she greatly enjoyed to engage with. She dearly treasured their games of chess together, though she had a sinking suspicion that he always allowed her to win.

Carnelia, the second eldest, was a most bitter-tempered young lady, and yet, despite her fierce inflamed outbursts, Anya always could not bring herself to dislike her rudeness, for, behind the easily-frustrated cries and common swears, there was a deep frustration present, which she herself could very much identify with. Over time, Carnelia had grown less fiery and more and more kind, until the Queen and she had become close friends, and now she only used that sharp tongue to lash out against those who did not repay Her Highness the respect due.

The last child of the three was Carnation, whose presence could be forgotten altogether in a crowded room. A timid and mouseish girl, she tended to have a love for wordplay and riddles that puzzled and stimulated Anya's tired thoughts, even though she often seemed to shy away from her and other figures of royalty out of some exaggerated bashfulness, despite their close difference in ages.

Anya had promised to try and visit them, despite her efforts at sneaking out amounting to little success, but she was unaware that their lack of recent communication towards her was not out of declining affection, but rather, hindered because of a troubling development within the Panettiete family.

* * *

Tragedy had struck the sweet three siblings, one so dark and foul, that only monsters who wore the faces of gentlemen, stirring within decaying child-brothels, repugnant sewers, and filthy drink-parlors could conjure.

It all began with pragmatic knocking upon their creaking wooden door, which Lady Edith Panettiete had primly answered, just having returned from assuring the children were all in their beds for the night. She had been expecting her husband, merrily drunk, as was the habit, to come stumbling through the doors and into her lithe arms. Instead, she was met with the stern-faced Constable Meriwether, a man who gave second chance to none and a sympathetic ear to even fewer. He brandished a lantern in one hand, the sight of which inexplicably sent chills down her spine. She tried to usher him in, but he would have none of it. To set her own fears at ease, she apologized for the ruckus her husband must've made at the drinking house two paces up the road, and asked when she would be able to gather him, but her words were instead ignored, and a tense, heavy silence was impressed upon any other attempt at quick-chat.

When he still offered no explanation, perhaps for once, trying not to be brutal, she asked in a trembling voice she cursed herself for, "W-where is my husband, _monsieur_?" Unbidden images reeled through her mind: a nasty accident with not-so-amiable drunks in an alleyway, a sweet-tongued prostitute having driven a knife in his gut when he refused her, fatal intoxication―

" _Madame_ , I regret to inform you of this at so late an hour, however―"

And she heard nothing after that, but the rush of the wind in her ears, and the excruciating throbs of her heart, which somehow beat while her spouse lay dead, forcing life into her unwilling veins, when all she wished was to be with him, cold, cold, cold.

And thankfully, the children did not awaken. No, she would break the news to them the following morning, from whence she would permit no public mourning, and they would, one by one, sulk off to their separate chambers to weep and anguish.

Eventually, though, about when the tears stopped and their little bodies drained of the energy to grieve, the three semi-orphans similarly lost their sense of appetite, picking lifelessly at their toast and smoked meat before their pale-faced mother strode in, swathed in black lace, and were greeted with the devastating announcement over the breakfast table.

"Last night, I had gone with Constable Meriwether to confirm the recent claims...I've so, so sorry, my darlings, my angeletts, but your father―is indeed―" She choked on her words and dove into a pale handkerchief in lieu of finishing herself.

"He's not!" Protested the middle child, slamming down her dulled silver spoon with a fierce blow. Carnelia ripped the dark ribbon out of her long, golden waves hair, throwing it to the ground. "It's a lie! Honestly! He's playing a stupid game, that's all it is! He'll show up tonight, stinking like always and grinning like an organ-grinder beast, and you'll feel just silly for falling for it―"

"Carnelia―sweetest, I know this must be very, very hard to understand―"

"No!" She snarled, twisting out of her seat and kicking the splintery, wooden chair to the floor. "It's not true!"

"Carnelia!" Edith snapped, and the girl's face abruptly soured; her mother had never raised her voice before. "You're fourteen years old, and still throwing fits! Is this how you thank him? By ruining the house he worked hard for?"

"But―it _can't_ be―" She at last regained her voice, but now her conviction trembled. Beside her, her sister took ginger hold of her hand, while her brother pushed back his own chair.

"Mummy, you're tired, aren't you?" Cornelius asked softly. "Up all night, having to see what you did―you should try to go to sleep. Everyone should have an early rest, I think."

"I-I'm sorry, Carnelia, Carnation and Cornelius, too; I'm still adjusting to the hard facts. Just, this whole awful business, I can hardly dare to believe it myself..." She shuddered once, but seemed to have enough composure to go on. "But I've yet to announce the biggest news of all. Listen, here...mummy has hired a very expensive, but very good detective! We should be so thankful that we have someone as brilliant as him agreeing to help with the investigation."

"Detective? Why do we need a detective?" Carnation asked, her hand still clutched within her sibling's.

"Well...you see, the detective told me not to tell you too much, it'd damage young minds, he said, but...there have been―complications, unusual occurrences, in your father's death. He did not, it seems, pass away from―wholly natural circumstances―"

"So he was murdered, is what you're saying!" Cried Carnelia. She stamped one foot upon the floorboards. "Some horrible person snuck up and done him in, yes? Some cowardly, disgusting, maggot-eating―monster!"

"―Well, yes, that is the theory. It so happens that Doctor Cobbler, who also the town mortician, may I remind you, agrees with _Monsieur_ Daniels."

"And how? Poison?" She demanded, shaking with fury and a hollowness that tore deeper inside her with every word.

"I won't say; you're just children, you don't need to know the details―just know that his suffering has at least ceased. Come now, try to perk up, please―you're headed to the symphony this evening with the maid, it'll take your minds off of such gruesome business."

"I won't go." The bitter nymphet declared, eyes brimming with tears. She shook her head, resolute. "How can I enjoy myself, on such a dreary day?"

"Go for Carnation, at least. You too, Cornelius―I have things to discuss with _Monsieur_ Daniels, it will go long into the night. Please, try to cherish it; I would hate for your livelihood to be stolen because of this. Up you go, now―you'll have to bathe early if you want good seats." With that, she patted their heads, and descended the front steps. "Don't fret, know that I'll love you double, triple, enough for two parents!"

And the door slammed in their faces, one plate half-upturned on the floor, having broken into halves.

"But then," Carnelia murmured. "How can you leave us?"

* * *

Orchestra! Oh, orchestra! The low golden sound from within deep bellies to the mewling of wood polished violins and their soulful cousins with their throaty voices suited for an opera. Oh, the sparkling chandeliers and long carpets, oh, the blend of the best of 'Amerikan', with its sapphire stars and scarlet stripes of some fiction country, our false idols and imagined demigods.

"Black tails and pale buttons," Snubbed the critical fashionista, the unappreciative audience with golden curls, hastily brushed and washed, coiling past stern-set shoulders down to the angles of sharp hips, streaked with a scarlet headband that was tucked behind her ears a tad too tight. Brow furrowed, standing a little over half of four feet, she rocked on her heels back and forth, effectively blocking the view of the gentleman with the misfortune to be seated behind her. A chalk-pale face, with lips knotted into a frown―flecked mudbrown from a stick of chocolate, currently stuffed half-melted into the wool pocket of her black coat―strained and wobbled precariously to see over the blue-green veil of the woman in front of her.

"Dull," The child proclaimed, wincing as her toes were squashed by expensive leather shoes beneath the velvet seat. "A real bore―give me excitement, none of this solemn slumber-music." Normally, she was not such a brutally vocal audience, but anger and frustration often led to verbal lashings.

Washed semi-clean with a chunk of emerald soap, she frowned even as a small hand clasped hers and a voice muttered reprimandingly into her ear. "Mummy paid a lot for these tickets, you know."

"And what a waste that was!" She snapped. "―Daddy's good inheritance going towards drivel like this."

"If he could have heard you just now, Carnelia, you would've made him cry."

"It's the truth." She said, acidic. "Admit it, Cornelius, you're terribly bored by this too!"

Her brother cleared his throat, cheeks flushed beneath the layer of powder. One hand reached up to straighten his bowtie out of habit, before lowering once more to tangle with Carnation's. Carnation was the most frail-looking of the triplets, with summer-colored locks that was neither a sheet-like mass like Carnelia's, nor a messy nest like Cornelius', hanging comfortably in midrange down to the dip of her throat. Her eyes were constantly wandering, and the same color of inky-black like her siblings'.

"Oh, it's not so bad," She chipped in, her chirping voice nearly drowned out by trumpets. "It was awful nice of mummy to give us these tickets while she went to see the detective man."

"Trying to get rid of us!" Carnelia said darkly. "She's hiding something, all right! She must be blind and deaf to think any of us couldn't tell!"

"I caught a whiff of some strong drink on her, this morning." Cornelius admitted. "Stronger than anything ever kept in the cellar."

"Do you think she hid a bottle to give to the detective? She's never had a taste for wine before."

"Yes, before what? Is it this incident that caused the recent dabbling in wine, or something more? She had those nice clothes on too, you saw."

"What do you mean? What are you trying to imply?" Carnelia's voice grew low, her eyes slitted.

He sighed, shaking his head in defeat. "I don't what I mean, Carnelia. At least, I hope I don't. But our mother is a very attractive woman, and still relatively young. And sorrow makes people do things they regret."

"Think what you want. But I'm writing Her Highness about this!"

"Don't, you'll be wasting ink. She had much more important matters to deal with; winter is just ending, after all, and with the spring comes a new load of troubles for the Queen. She has to deal with noblemen and bishops, debts and deficit, much more important things than a commoner's death."

"Cornelius! First mummy, now her! What's the _matter_ with you? Why are you acting so cruel? Have you forgotten 'the Queen', as you so coldly address her as, Anyali, is our friend! Just because you have to call her by her royal title doesn't mean she's a stranger!"

"She's a ruler who allows her own people to die on the streets like flies! It's because she doesn't pay the authorities enough, hogging it all for herself, that she―!"

The next words died with a guttural cry of pain, his face now marked a brilliant red, his sister holding her throbbing hand high in the air. "Shut up! It's the grief eating at you, that's all! You'll blame anything you want at this point, anything to avoid the truth!"

"C-Carnelia―"

"No! I am taking Carnation, and we're going to get far away from this awful noise, and your brute behavior! Maybe we'll meet again, dear brother, when you regain a civil tongue and sense!" She snatched her sister's hand, forcibly tugging her off the seat as the two girls worked their way into the dense crowd of people.

"You think that sympathy will win her over?" He called back, viciously. "Impossible! She's married to a man and will soon bear an heir; a commoner, and a girl, no less, holds naught a candle! Nothing, nothing at all! Go on, confess, see if she gives a damn! Your affections have blinded you!"

He received no reply, and instead of trying again in vain, he fingered the traces of a forming bruise on his face, darkening like a rotted peach.

* * *

As he said, the eldest Panettiete boy had indeed correctly predicted Anya's misfortunate situation. She was very much hounded, never given much a moment's peace, between audiences and stern advice from those of the royal court, and when she was not having portraits done or admiring flower arrangements, she was frantically throwing herself into any activity she could. She would've eagerly sought out the colonel's company, but she had hardly seen him at all since her arrival, except for a fleeting shadow, as he was already out the palace doors whenever she was afforded a chance to lay eyes upon him. Her desperate letters continued to be unanswered, not that she would be able to write them openly anymore; she had gotten worked over one night, that she had broken all of her calligraphy pens. Her husband refused to replace them, calling her actions childish and thus, punishing her like one. Not that his decree had stopped her from requesting a custom gold-engraved set, which she would take utmost care of, as her correspondence would now have to be done in secret.

The dances bored her so, the extravagant balls little more than torture. Yes, beautiful women envied her adorable figure, and handsome young men praised her delicate smile, but despite her luxury and wealth, she was still quite alone, managing to develop only a few personal friendships, but nothing even close to a confident. She chattered to fill the emptiness, like a robin whose breast was stained with red, almost looking like blood. And oh, how sometimes she wished she could be that robin, or any such bird, and just leave everything, far behind her! But despite her own unhappiness, Anya did not try to deliberately escape her entitled duties. While she craved normalcy and privacy, for just a single day without the stifling pressure of leadership, she still had a duty to uphold, and a promise to her family to fulfill. Her pride would not allow her to discard that, and betray them for her own yearnings.

Spring! The season of life, when the Queen should've been bursting with joy, seizing the advantages of her birthright to every effect! And yet, she felt so empty! So great was her despair, it was of no surprise that she would yearn for a proper companion.

And so, Anya began allowing more requests for audiences than usual. She also started socializing more with those of the court, spending hours at a time with painters and singers, those who dressed her and recommended tasteful ensembles, those who played piano or violin at private concerts, and so on. Usually, at this time, it was not uncommon for women to have private female friends, with which to indulge in conversation and generally bask in the other's company. However, despite every smile and flattering word, every compliment and enthusiastic applause, she had no such lovely friend of her own. There were the triplets, of course, but their pen-conversations, already few, had simply disappeared entirely within the last month. It drove the girl mad to think that she was hated for some undisclosed reason, but fear kept her from summoning them. At least, given from the paper and vulgar words of the vine, she knew why some of the common people held grudge against her: her foreign blood, blood that had spilled theirs, blood of an enemy's!

 _It's as if the treaty has amounted to nothing at all, my dear Alda! If you still love me, if you do not begrudge me my position, please, respond!_ She hastily sealed the envelope and sent it off with a messenger, but even the sight of the carriage riding off beneath a brilliant sunset and unfolding star-gleaming night cut at her hopes.

"I hate to take away her happiness by burdening her with my troubles," She sighed. "But this is too much to bear! My skin, my heart, is the same as those blood-tied to Mondediolle! I've done nothing to shame them, except being born! If only they knew, the weight on my shoulders!"

The colonel's words of caution once again returned to her, as chilling as the day they were first uttered, but she broke the spell by vigorously shaking herself. "I can only do my best to reign kindly and justly, as I have. A few may dislike me, but no one has been cruel to me! There is not a monster behind every man! I must take care not to become paranoid and shunning, or else, I earnestly will draw suspicion and slander. Rebellion? Rubbish! I have earned love and admiration of many, and those bitter few who protest otherwise, before long, they too will see sense!" 

She distanced herself from the writing desk, and called upon a maid to dress her for the night. Presently, a young girl appeared, not too much older than Anya, wearing a plain black dress and pale apron over that, with little fanfare or show, even for a position as high as hers. However, being the Queen's personal servant did not seem to incite within the girl her own taste for lavishment, rather, she gave off a practical air, with sharp eyes that were neither weary nor bored of tedious work. Her skin was dark, in addition to the decoration worn on her forehead: she was supposedly the daughter of a mistress of the late King, and he could not bear to turn her out when his lover died from smallpox. Origin aside, she was an excellent worker, and could toil for long stretches at a time without needing meals.

She curtseyed with practiced movements, and Anya recognized this to be the time to expose the milk-pale length of her spine, so she could undo the elaborate fasteners and relieve her of the tight corset and heavy, billowing skirt. "Please, do go on." She said, lifting the length of her hair to give her better access, sweeping brown curls away from her nape.

"Your Highness..." She began softly, her fingers lying almost hesitantly at the knobs of her supple spine.

"Yes? You may speak, Mana."

"I'm sorry, it may be an observation above me, however...are you, most certainly, happy?"

Anya jolted; she had not expected such a blunt question, nor one with such truth to it. Taking this as permission, the servant continued on. "His Majesty has been very busy as of late―and there are some that speak of you being unable to bear children, because of his―frequent absences. However, I notice, at night, you wear a certain contraption, one that often prevents attempts to impregnate woman. And often, you only join bed with the King when it is very late, and he is soon to wake. No matter your source of dread, this stress that plagues you, is not healthy is any form! It is only out of concern that I overstep my boundaries and speak so crudely to you, and for my rudeness, I apologize, but you cannot deny the defects!"

"Sleep eludes me for a number of reasons―familial reasons, meant to be private." She said, hurriedly trying to regain her wits.

"It is none of my business, you don't have to say―but I cannot stand to see our ruler in such misery. If there is anything I can do to alleviate your pain, just request it."

"And what if there was?" The words slipped from her, unbidden, as clever fingers reached the small of her back, and had begun shedding the layered skirt.

"Then I would do it, without hesitation."

Hearing such kind, true words, such honest care and worry, for the first time in years, brought tears to Anya's eyes, tasting the bitter salt of wretched dreams and choking isolation as her composure crumbled and she wept, giving herself over to complete abandon and yearning to fill the spaces in her heart, as she turned and embraced her tightly, fingers trembling as she clung to this final pillar to support, when all else had left her, giving love as best she could in hopes of being filled in return, stroking her throat, the softness of her chest, her legs and arms and holding her warmth close, finally able to feel alive again as the blood raced at her wrists, ridding themselves of all the frills and finery that separated them in status and flesh, sharing shy, honeyed kisses before the temptation became too great, and each surrendered to the other with the sweet blindness of touches and nothing else, feeling so wonderfully alive!


	3. Chapter Two

Evening had fallen by the time Daniels heard a low knocking at the door. With unhurried leisure, he brushed the wrinkles out of his frayed and faded suit, pushed the half-emptied bottle of spirits off the large stack of paper in front of him, towards an unused corner of the filthy desk, and lifted himself on his feet. Despite all outwards appearances, the man was in fact, not a mere drunkard, but a savagely clever detective, who often charged exorbitant fees for his services, though he was willing to accept _other_ forms of payment from clients―particularly if she was an attractive woman. Despite his money-grubbing habits and taste for liquor, he certainly earned his prestigious reputation.

How he had gotten a customer as wealthy as Edith Panettiete, though, he could only surmise was due to an immense amount of luck. She wasn't that high in social status, but her late husband had more than enough money to nicely sustain them, and surround his family in a luxurious hidden world of riches and comfort, though lately, judging from the amount of alcohol in his body from the mortician's report, a good chunk of it had went to booze. He had also heard several reports of Richard Panettiete having been seen with multiple women on shady street corners―at least, that was the word from that girl-reporter and Geraldine, and while he did like the occasional toss with the latter, Sheryl was too young and too prone to black-listing anyone whom she fancied a grudge against, and he wasn't sure how much truth there was to her vile tongue―but he preferred to tactfully withhold that information from the grieving widow.

" _Madame_ Panettiete, what a pleasant surprise; come in, dear lady." He opened the door and she strode in, dressed in fine licorice-black, her blonde curls tousled, her eyes weary from weeping, the pungent smell of perfume following after her. In one hand, she held her purse, heavy and jingling with coins, stuffed with a bouquet of wilted flowers and a nearly emptied bottle of fine wine. He offered her a chair, she politely accepted and settled into the worn and scratched velvet, looking as if she could collapse at any moment; he strategically placed it closer to the wall.

"Is there anything," She asked quietly, silken voice hoarse, "That you have discovered?"

He laughed good-naturedly; an attempt to whisk away the spirits of the dead that threatened to pervade his comfortable atmosphere. "Is there anything I have not discovered? It is a wonderful world, _madame_ , you should explore it one day! Ah, but no matter where I go, I have never seen a woman as exquisite as you!"

Her acidic clenching of teeth, behind the tight line of her mouth did not appreciate his jolly humor, nor his boasting romantic inclination. His grin faded, he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his untidy black locks. "The body, the late Richard, that is to say, according to Jacques Cobbler, died from a blow to the back of the head, made by a blunt and heavy object. He was found in an alleyway at the time of death, I've been told, and there was little around except the brick walls and an empty old crate. Suspects, he claims, he probably got into a fight with a few drunkards and met a nasty end."

"It _was_ murder." Her quiet, forced stress on the word held a kind of grim triumph, in knowing the initial claim had been correct. One hand nervously went up to fiddle with her lapel, revealing the dull gleam of pearls beneath.

"It most certainly was. Cobbler checked, and saw there were no bricks sticking out at an unnatural angle where _Monsieur_ Panettiete's head would've been, so he couldn't have stumbled and hit his head on something by accident. As for me, there's a certain young girl I will need to speak to later..."

"My daughters? Carnelia, or Carnation?" Immediately her expression grew tight with pain, but he shook his head with a dismissal wave of his hand.

"No, no. Norma, Norma Queensley. You don't know her, I expect? No? Anyhow, she's the apprentice of a copyist, quite a damn good one too. She does have a devilish love for games, but she can be bought with enough, and take her job seriously. I'll need to drop by her's for a visit, in order to retrieve some papers I need."

"Game? This is no game! This is my husband's life we're talking about, _monsieur_."

"Yes, yes, I completely agree. Care for a chocolate?" He held out a box, a dozen of the dark creams wrapped in gold foil; a gift he had received from his last client.

"No, thank you." She refused, not unkindly.

"Suit yourself. By the by, I believe Cobbler would like an appointment with your children later in the afternoon. Don't ask me why, I don't know, and anyway, he is your family doctor, is he not? They're probably due for a routine examination." He closed the sweets back into their green velvet case.

Daniels eyed the neck of the exposed wine bottle. "Shall we have a drink? To calm the nerves, a simple tonic, is all. You've been through an awful ordeal, Edith."

Her glassy eyes slitted at him, and the use of her name. She shook her head, swaying slightly. "I'm afraid I've consumed too much already."

"Oh, oh? Enough fun, then. Time for business. Particularly, the discussion of payment."

"I-I don't have quite _all_ the money owed yet, however―" Trembling hands wrung themselves together in her lap. His warm hand laid against her knee.

"You do know, I accept reasonable substitutes instead of currency?" He asked, almost conversationally.

She nodded. "―I know."

And the next minute, whether for comfort or out of pure greed, she wilted into his demanding kiss. As not quite foreign hands unfastened the buttons out of their holes, stroked the fine length of silk and lace along her throat, and she gently loosened the knot of his rumpled tie, slung off his suspender straps, the young widow removed her veil and dropped it to the floor, and somehow the movement seemed like a toss to the wind, a celebration of freedom, and somehow, the mattress spilling cotton and stuffing out of a rip in its side, reminded her more and more of a coffin, a cozy place to discover that little death while courting her own mourning period, in the way of supplying Daniels with satisfaction, and herself with a sense of savage fulfillment. Lust! Burning and delirious, and with enough green guilt to drown herself in pleasure so deep, Edith wished she would never surface to break the waters of reality again.

* * *

" _Mademoiselle_ Queensley? I say, _monsieur_ , have you not one girl by the name Queensley? I was told she is at this address." Daniels warmly asked of the spite-hearted, old copyist just as he was leaving for brunch, he merely extended a withered hand to indicate his coveted child was inside before descending the steps, which the detective took as an invitation to invite himself in.

The shop was in a most deplorable state: the floorboards weary and stained, the corners gray with cobwebs and dust from years of neglect, broken inkpots and pens thrown about with little organization, and stacks and stacks of pale overflowing everywhere, completely obscuring the young girl behind the mess, frantically scribbling.

"Norma? Are you in here?"

Norma did not answer until she slammed the calligraphy pen down with victorious _bang_ , finally peeking over her desk, to reveal milk-pale cheeks smudged with ink and peppermint-bright eyes eager to be done with such droning work.

" _Monsieur_ Daniels!" She stood up, untied the bonnet around her head to reveal a tangled mess of black hair that curled down to her throat, and curtseyed. "It's been quite a while."

"It has, it has. I trust no more tricks this time?" The previous time they had met, he was requesting copies of a will, and the girl had written the damned thing in pale ink! Thankfully, the frilled hem of her burgundy skirt hid the faint redness incurred by his rarely-incurred wrath, and some fierce leg of a chair or mark of his hand upon her skin.

"Of course not," Though he wouldn't be surprised to see her little fingers crossed. " _Monsieur_. Come now, come now! I'll do this deed for you, and what reward shall I receive in return?" Fear lasted not long in Norma's heart, she tempted serpents and toyed with demons, and though D. Daniels was hardly so temperamental, he did reward her after a satisfactory job with a box of sweet-things that she greatly enjoyed.

"Flowers, and a private brunch." He answered with a roll of his shoulders. "Wine and pink pearls. Whatever you desire, pet!"

"Don't 'pet' me, good man! I'll bite, you know, for girls are most feline, and boys are quite like dogs! Rooting for truffles!"

"Those would be piglets. I see working for a copyist, while it has done wonders for an urchin's grammar, does nothing for basic education. How is his leash, young kitten? Not too tight?"

"Tight enough," She huffed, and shook her head. "He is such an awful sport when it comes to games. Business, money, that's all he cares about!"

"Oh, dear, dear. Would you like to come home with me? You can't cost very much, and I would feed you regularly, in addition to giving you a full year's worth of exercise in one afternoon."

Norma snapped her teeth. "Perhaps, perhaps not, but any obedience training and I'll bite your hand!" She grinned, straightening up on her chair. "Now, what's this work?"

"Ah, work? Yes, of course. You see, my current case―"

"―Filled with kisses, I suppose―" She groaned.

"―The woman has lost her husband in most strange circumstances, you understand. I'd like you to find and copy two of each: any history of Richard Panettiete, his will, and anything else you deem important."

"Find? I'm not a pigeon to send off, whenever you please!" She cried, indignant and swinging her red-stockinged legs.

"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips. "You'll get extra treats, anything. Every bird must fly, yes, if they don't want to break their little bones upon leaving the nest."

"Only to discover the bars of a cage." She muttered, but slid her small hand into his own, and shook it, once.

The deal was struck, and as the copyist return from his break, and Norma threw herself back into her bleak work, Daniels bid the world at large a ceremonious good-bye, to which he only received the sounds of pens scratching on documents. Spring was in the air, and there were no answers to be yielded as of yet.

* * *

"Come now, dears, don't lag behind. Doctor Cobbler wants to see you three right away." Edith pulled her troubled triplets along, Carnation tugging at her dark hem, Carnelia holding one hand while her other hung empty, Cornelius lingering near the back with ghost-like apprehension. "My little ladies and gentleman, please! Hurry, hurry along! This evening I've got a few errands to run, and I won't be made late!"

"Do you have to see _Monsieur_ Daniels again, mummy?" Her sour prince broke in, ending the awkward shuffling and murmurs from his sisters at last. "Did he enjoy the wine?"

Her ankles tightened, her shoes' crisp clacking now dragging and stiff. "I assume he did. How clever of you to notice." She reached out, and ran a soft hand briefly through his neatly brushed, golden hair.

"I'd like to meet him." Cornelius went on. "Since I'm so clever, maybe I'll be a detective too."

She shook her hand, tugging Carnelia along with a slightly more hurried pace. "No, no, I'm afraid not. He's a private detective, you see, very busy, very exclusive. He has many clients, it would not be fair to ask him to set aside his sparse spare time."

With that, she shooed them ahead into the examination room, a cold and poorly-lit place, with frames of suffocated butterflies and gruesome illustrations of human innards. The sisters held hands, while the brother refused to be linked. Doctor Jacques Cobbler, a polite but not entirely warm man, stood in his pale coat and gold buttons, his spectacles cracked in one lens, and his thick, hazel hair neatly combed to the side in a style that made him appear much older than he was. Even in the dim light, the children could not help but examine little details: there was a tray of silver instruments sitting on a wooden, splintery table, and a single operating table which would serve as a makeshift bench for his patients.

One by one, the girls with identical faces undid their identical laces, as the boy-witch, no longer such a blind prince, took off his shoes. Then, with no small amount of distaste, they each donned the flimsy paper gowns hung upon the door, in pale pink and blue. Carnelia's tore along the side as she fitted it over her head, she shrieked as the faint arcs of her ribcage and shape of her budding breast were now visible, and hurried to close it, at the same time trying to cover her exposed backside, only hidden by a few thin strings tied together. But it was no use, and she quickly ceased her flailing and struggling as she only crumpled her attire further, threatening to tear to shreds entirely. Cheeks aflame, she only prayed the length of her hair could cover most of the skin, and sat upon the table, humiliated and knees knocking together.

Jacques smiled at her, but refrained from petting her head. "Don't be anxious, it'll be a quick procedure, nearly painless. Open your knees, otherwise I can't examine you. I'm sorry I have to have all three of you in the room at once, but this is for comparison purposes."

She bit her lip and stared down into her lap, her tightly-clenched fist held within Carnation's. Even Cornelius, though in bitter opposition they were, had seemed to regain his usual mild nature and looked away with a gentleman's nature, in an attempt to give unspoken comfort.

With shaking shoulders, she separated her legs by an inch, so that Jacques could gently check organ softness via female capacity—though in the case of Cornelius, the latter step would be altered, by instead deeming whether his own external organ was of average function or not—and then follow that with a procedure to test the thickness of their bones, which none wished to know the exact details.

The entire room stunk of lilac, so thick it dizzied their young heads and would continue to push them to the brink of nauseation long after they had left, but at least it hid the scent of blood, just as the flickering candles hid other such unpleasant sights, but unfortunately, the sounds of unfortunate Carnelia's discomfort and pain could not be muffled from witnesses.

But the young girl's suffering was just a small trifle compared to her heart-halved mother, for while the results were clear, the conversation that ensued afterwards was a grim one.

"Your children's bones are as strong as anchors. They're strong, as you said yourself ran in your bloodline. However, I find births, especially simultaneous ones like your triplets, tend to take after the father in terms of health. Richard Panettiete had a very brittle skeleton however, like bones made of glass! It's most unusual for all of them to bear the hallmarks of your genetics, and yet share none of his. With one child, the chances are possible, with two, it's almost expected, but for three children, to share none of their father's afflictions, is unheard of!"

"What does this have to do with my husband's death?"

"He died from a brick to the skull, but it was only one blow, and the initial impact was not very hard. Normally, if he had had bones of usual strength, he would've survived."

"As I'm well aware, since you've told me this before. How do my children's skeletons and insides relate to this?"

"Well, this is mere speculations and out-loud wondering on my part, but―three perfectly healthy children! Either one of them has an awful defect or disease lying dormant, and if that was the case, they wouldn't have survived out of toddlerhood, or some other person must've received his faulty bones. Since none of them are flawed, another must've been the unlucky heir―"

"―You must be out of your head, doctor! Richard had another child? Impossible! He's fathered no one but the triplets you have just seen, unless you're implying they are not his children at all, which is surely not the case, as you can see the obvious and strong resemblance between them!" She snapped, and with a swirl of her light scarf, headed towards the door, where Carnelia could not meet anyone's eyes, Carnation was occupied with buttoning back up the collar of her dress, and Cornelius tried to banish the flush from his cheeks.

"Were the results not good?" He asked, with all of a child's innocent curiosity.

"No, there's nothing to worry about, dear. Shall we return home? I'm afraid I'm so busy tomorrow I won't have the time myself, but one of the maids will go with you to take a trip down to Jewelleston's Sweet Shoppe, how does that sound?"

"You mean the 'Candy Shop for People of Cannibalistic Yearnings'," Carnelia muttered. "I heard they chops up rats and put them in the pies!"

Carnation tugged at her hem. "You can't go with us, mummy?"

Edith shook her head, heavy with grief. "I'm afraid not. I've got further business with the detectives, but later, we'll all go someplace together."

"To visit the Queen?" A bright, heartbreaking hope suddenly burst aflame in Carnelia's voice.

"Perhaps." She answered, strained. "If you eat all your vegetables before bed, I'll consider it."

The girl-children happily promised they would do so, though Cornelius hesitated a bit, and as they rode home in a dusky rose sunset, it was as if they had almost returned to the comforting days of being a family.

* * *

And while the Panettiete son and daughters cherished the fleeting warmth of their evening, and would later climb into their lumpy beds with mildly settled hearts, another young girl just one year older, but having to endure tens of years worth of responsibility before her time, laid on her thick goose-down mattress atop miles of gorgeous fabric and expensive stitching, still in her ceremonial dress and too weary to dispose of it herself, as both sleep and stillness eluded her once again.

To Anya, it seemed as if the paradisical memories of the previous night had just been a brief interluding fantasy, but in the morning, when she had awoken bare and filled with utter joy, she had been met with the sight of her servant dressing in anticipation of the day's work, wearing nothing on her lithe body but a loose corset as she tied back her black hair into two tight braids. She left without a sound, and soon afterwards she herself stealthily snuck out, back into the King's bed, for thankfully the man was still slumbering, and would hopefully just assume her reading had gone on longer than expected. But when the maid refused to meet her eyes as she laid out the delicate porcelain bowls for sugar, thin lemon slices, and then two ornate cups full of steaming tea, the guilt was so great it tore her heart to shreds, and she cursed herself for her selfishness. Suppose the girl considered it rape? Suppose, she had done such a monstrous thing, by forcing Mana to service her in flesh as well? Would she now do what Anya was doing to her husband, and avoid her nightly duties, never again to see her at bedside, to undress her, and bathe her, and powder her for celebrations? Would she turn to the streets rather than face her evening mistress?

As if she had uttered her muddled thoughts and called out to her in reality, the door creaked open, and a slice of light fell upon her outstretched frame. She eagerly cast her eyes upon the door, but she merely heard the soft, familiar voice proclaim it was time for the final meal of the day. The young Queen sat up and descended from the bed, but found the girl was hidden in the shadows of the hallway. This time, she did not extend her arm to her. Mana escorted her in silence, and once she was seated, she disappeared into the kitchen for the ladles and tureens to begin serving.

The royal chef, Eva Schiessheim, made such delicious dishes each night, but Anya had long grown used to such fanciful fare. The thick prawn-lobster soup, the tiny plates of delicate caviar, the stuffed pheasant and duck, the five-tier cakes, she dutifully tried it all but had not the stomach to savor the complex tastes and exquisite scents, and instead partook in it listlessly, scarcely registering the textures and subtle nuances of flavor. Before she or the King took one nibble, however, Fra Pandolf took small samples of each, to determine there was not a drop of poison, and it was safe for the royal couple to consume. Mana stood off to the side, ready to refill drained wine glasses or to supply empty plates with more, and cast anxious, discreet glances to Fra every now and then.

The King immediately adjourned the table after the meal, presumably off to visit his brother once more, leaving Anya alone in their room as she prepared to dress herself in her nightclothes for bed, assuming her maid was excusing herself from her duties―

A soft, persistent knocking at the door set her heart aflame, but she forced her voice not to tremble as she bid the visitor entry. And lo, it was her sweet seraph, her enchanting seductress, her mystical pied piper of dreams!

Mana stood in front of the door, shutting and locking it, for neither girl wanted interruptions during this clandestine meeting, this forbidden engagement.

"Mana―"

"Lady Anya―" The servant began simultaneously, her voice fluttering. She quickly fell silent though, unable to bring her thoughts into sound.

Anya made a soft, cycling gesture. "Go on, please."

"My Queen, my actions of yesterday...they were borne out of a moment of weakness. A temporary phase of admiration mistaking for attraction, that is all. I do not wish to pursue any―any such improper relationship behind the King's back, so please, _please_ , don't execute me! I beg for your mercy, your Highness." She got down on one knee, hands clasped.

"Execute you?" Anya's voice was faint, her torn heart weakly beating, despite her crushed spirit. "I would never. You're―a very important person, Mana. I-I thank you for indulging in my―weaknesses, and lusts, last night. Of course, I won't force you to do it anymore―obviously, you would hate it―between girls, after all―" She turned away, having to hide the welling tears.

Mana raised her eyes, and there was a similar such agony on her face. "My Lady! I do not hate you, I bear no grudge, none at all. I will continue to be your loyal servant, however―however―"

"No more of the flesh. I understand." Her fist clenched tightly in her lap, but it was caught by a warm hand that closed around hers.

"No! Of flesh―is fine. To...to make love, in addition to my usual work, would be a most pleasant activity indeed, however―I feel the burden of such a secret, would cause even more stress to weigh down upon your shoulders."

"Mana!" She could've melted into her arms in relief. "I felt alive, last evening! I've found joy again! I would trade every treasure in the kingdom, drain every drop of my royal blood in my veins, to keep it! You've given me a wonderful, wonderful gift, greater than any service I've ever received! Thank you, my dearest!"

And she wept, this time out of not grief, but joy.

However, as restrained to the throne as she was, the young Queen remained oblivious to the depths of hidden, shadowy inner workings of her own kingdom, that the colonel had warned her about, so many months ago. And just as she remained unfortunately ignorant of some things, she simply was not privy to the interpersonal dilemmas of her servants that Mana had long since noticed, being level with such things, and had begun to suspect that some ominous event would soon strike.

While Fra and Eva were mere assistants to royalty, to Mana, they were vicious and cruel people, who resented her for her own high status in the servants' social hierarchy. Fra was a ruthless, sadistic man, who liked to pinch her cheeks and nose, forcing her to swallow whatever foul concoction Eva created, and she was not so lucky to eat fare of the same divine flavor of her beloved Queen―rat stew or rotten meat often was forced down her throat, which she could merely pass off as an illness causing her to be sick and cry out with pain, for no one would believe her that her close 'companions' had done such a horrible thing. Even when the food seemed innocuous, she went into a violent sickness for hours afterwards, until her body was drained of the bitter almond taste and anything else that resided in her abused stomach.

But despite their cruelty to her, Mana did not believe their activities inflicted upon her held precedence over the Queen's own worries, and never mentioned it. She also had faith that as petty as they were, Fra and Eva would not harm the royal couple by tampering with their food―however, she still could not help the cold chill down her spine whenever she opened the steaming tureens, never knowing which night she would be forced to serve her lover a nightmarish meal, that she would never survive to try dessert.

Yet, as they shared the heavy quilt, and the warm heat from Anya's touch soaked into her skin, she could not bring herself to worry about anything else other than keeping the other close.

* * *

Unfortunately, as the gossip-papers and propaganda rags very well told, everyone was having difficulties or some kind of scandal behind papered walls and perfumed gardens, from the Queen herself to the illiterate, lowest of classes. So while foreign servants were steadily suffering from small increments of arsenic poisoning, even dutiful soldiers of Mondediolle were humiliated daily, as if the medals pinned to their chests were mere decoration. Such was the case of Colonel Dominique Knight.


	4. Chapter Three

Just as Anyaliavich had grown steadily unhappier with her newfound, lofty position as time went on, so did the stern colonel. Even though there was no war at present, the young man insisted on his platoon, consisting of six men, to practice drills with strict regimen and no tolerance for mistakes. However, Lionel was a rebellious soldier with the humor of a child and an ego that somehow proclaimed himself as some sort of deity, above his commanding officer. Dominique knew he exchanged filthy talk about him behind his back, and while Lionel insisted at every turn to avoid his duties, calling it mere 'playing war', Dominique had to struggle to keep his dark temper from lashing out, instead enduring the ridiculous taunts and half-hearted patrols, for while he was the true leader, none of the men were fond of him, and often joined Lionel in what they called 'merry-making', indulging in drink on duty and other such scandalous behavior unfitting of their country's protectors.

"Orrick! Rhett! You two make the trip to Mondewood, and return here by evening! Gore and Alcott, patrol Umbredale, and don't skip around the town limits! Vaughn, you'll have to make a solo visit to Tremere, and Lionel, you'll accompany me to Beauholm!" Time had not worn down the colonel, rather, he was as wintry-hearted and quick-minded as the day he had been promoted, riding atop his faithful black stallion, pistol brightly polished and sword sharp at his side. However, beneath the dark brim of his cap, there was a restlessness in his gaze; some said he grew quite worried about Her Highness at times, but then, there were other outlandish rumors that claimed he had once bedded the Queen, so no one knew which to believe.

While the others dispersed, Lionel, however, merely turned his summer-sky blue eyes up towards the trees just steadily beginning to bloom after a harsh winter, and tightened the reins of his horse. Dominique narrowed his eyes, starting to urge his steed into a steadily trot. "Come on, hurry now. And put on your cap, we can't have people thinking that all soldiers don't properly dress themselves."

Lionel ground his teeth, crushing his cap between strong gloved fingers before slapping it on over a nest of thick brown hair. Without a word, he stingingly swatted his horse to break into a full gallop, racing ahead of his superior. "Well, come on!" He called, mockingly. "Hurry now, we can't have people thinking all soldiers ride off into battle looking as tame as lambs!"

Dominique sighed shortly in a hiss of breath, and quickened his own pace.

Unfortunately, night had fallen by the time they reached the small, poor, and disreputable city of Beauholm. Both had grown weary from such a long ride, and decided, with little persuasion needed, to take a short rest and wait for the others to arrive before returning to Mondediolle.

"Lionel, what kind of restaurant is this?" Dominique demanded in a low undertone. "I want to hurry and leave." He disliked engaging in any sort of business in Beauholm, for people did not take so kindly to soldiers there; already, their scarlet coats and weapons had drawn hostile stares. Neither did the place itself strike a very welcoming image: the lighting was tinted with some kind of orange-golden color, the windows had thick curtains drawn over the glass, the air thick with smoke and perfume, and the many tables were small and cramped into corners, despite the room being very large. There were very few men, and what little there were didn't seem interested in exchanging conversation, choosing to face the wall, where their faces were hidden, while the women wore extravagantly fanciful dresses with plunging necklines, their corsets seeming tighter than usual to accentuate their breasts, giggling and hiding their faces behind their fluttering fans, casting occasional glances at the newcomers.

Lionel merely shrugged his shoulders in a boyish way, removing his mouth from a half-drained bottle of strong alcohol, the mere stench making Dominique feel faint. "Leave? But they've just arrived!" And it was so: tired but eager to be free of work, the soldiers eagerly left the doorwomen with their coats and hat, while Dominique was the only one still dressed in full uniform. He was mightily tempted to take his horse back on his own, but his own hunger persuaded him to stay slightly longer. With an exasperated shake of his head, he slunk back into his chair, waving over one the ladies he assumed was a worker.

The girl looked quite a bit younger than him, with long, shimmering burgundy hair that must've taken hours brushing and curling, until she had a luxurious sheet of ringlets to wrap herself in. She wore an elaborate puce dress with an absurd amount of frills and bows, along with heavy-looking necklace of dark pearls. Her lips were painted a venomous ruby, and not even the agonizing tightness of her corset could create the illusion of substance for her torso, which was like a child's. A grin curled at her lips, putting her weight onto the table edge until she was almost leaning into him.

Dominique, his cheeks burning with blood, cleared his throat to grasp her wandering eye, which was currently examining his comrades with varying degrees of interest. "I beg your pardon, I'd like to know what you serve here." He asked crisply, but the girl only looked delightfully amused, as if he was playing a game of some sort.

"Anything you like, handsome colonel." This time, her gaze lingered only on him. He was distinctly aware the scent of her cloying rose perfume was growing stronger, as she idly leaned closer to caress the soft skin of his ear with her breath.

Dominique slid further to the side of his chair, to discourage her devious advances. "I'm afraid I don't know what is provided here. Could you simply just recommend something?" Again came that brilliant light into her eyes, as if she was trying to stifle laughter.

"I could show you the freshest meat." She said, with a look of false innocence on her face. Her hand curled around his thin shoulder, and he winced.

"I'll take anything, as long as it satisfies my appetite." He muttered, snatching back his cap when the girl playfully tried lifting it, revealing his short, pale blonde hair.

"Why, I never pegged you as that sort of man." Lionel snickered. "I thought you would be much pickier." His head was lying in the lap of a giggling redhead, who was much more well-endowed than the girl so eager to speak with him. All the other men, at this point, had consumed their fair share of cheap drink, and shared a bemused, glassy look in their eyes.

"Not when I'm in a hurry." He snapped through clenched teeth. He was losing his patience; exhaustion, hunger, and humiliation did not make a winning combination for Dominique, but at the soft, slightly firm touch at his shoulder, he forced himself not to surrender to his irritation.

"I'm Elise." The girl introduced herself with a smile, and took his gloved hand―presumably to show him the kitchen. He obediently followed her into the curiously lightless back room, but upon seeing only peeling, floral wallpaper, and but a single bed, Dominique realized in a furious bolt what exactly he had just stumbled upon. He hastily strode out, cheeks aflame as he slammed his hand down upon the table, where his platoon was laughing uproariously at his mistake.

"Stop it!" He ordered. "All of you! We're leaving this horrible establishment, this― _whorehouse_ ―now! You all thought it would be amusing to trick me, all right then, you've had your fun! To think, men of the Queen, indulging in such a vile business!"

Lionel grinned in cruel spirit, sitting up. "Oh? You think you're too good for girls like these? The one you picked wasn't ugly, not at all! I suppose the only woman good enough for you is Her Highness herself!"

Dominique snatched the wine bottle out of his hand and flung it away; there was a short scream as it shattered against the floorboards. "If you weren't so disgustingly drunk, I would strike you." He said stonily. "But listen to me: I am your superior, and you follow my orders, unless you'd like me to write an unfavorable report to the King!"

"I never said we wouldn't leave!" Lionel spat back, his anger riled now that his liquor was disposed of. But after a minute, he sunk back, a cunning smirk on his face. "But why now, when things are just about to start?"

"Because I am not sleeping with any of these women, and neither are you, at least not tonight." Dominique replied, levelly. "We need to get back to Mondediolle before it grows too dark to see."

"Why not tonight?" Lionel blithely continued, ignoring his given reasons. "Why not live for a night? When was the last time you tasted true pleasure? A year? Five? Or could it be, perhaps," And here, he grinned foully. "You never have at all?"

"That's enough. I don't see why that even matters to you―"

"Trying to hide the truth! Such a coward! How can he be called such a proud creature as a man, without once asserting dominance over women? And it is _you_ who orders _us_?"

" _I_ don't have to prove myself to you―!" Despite the outward confidence and indignance of those words, however, Dominique was indeed isolated. Perhaps not out in society, where he was adored by women and considered a fine role model for young boys, with a high rank and wealthy pay, with girlishly fine features and yet an iron will, but within the platoon, where he was openly disobeyed, he had no standing in their eyes except as an amusement, like how a budding sadist would pin a butterfly and rip off its wings. And because of their deep hatred, though he had no desire to join their crude circle of companionship, he did wish and greatly yearn for their respect.

"It'll be quick! Just once, once, to prove your manliness and salvage your pride. You've had instructions before, of course, or did you teach yourself?" Lionel was a beastly drunk, and Dominique had always brought out the worst in him, such an arrogant man who could only see what was right in front of him.

He attempted several more protests, but each time he was only met with implications that burned his pride and fed his simmering temper. "You girl!" They jeered. "You eunuch, you insect! Come on, take a chance for once, just one tiny risk, why can't you? Why can't you?"

" _All right_!" Dominique snarled, his fingers aching from the tight fist he had them clenched in, nearly bloodying his palms. He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself, and spoke once more, his voice shaking. "I'll do it. I'll _pay_ for her―s _ervices._ " The word was thick with disgust.

With an ashamed, defeated shake of his head, ignoring the satisfied leers and cheers from the perverse soldiers, Dominique returned to the dark room, whereupon Elise quietly locked the door. She turned to face her customer, but he was not looking at her, instead sitting slumped on the bed, as if having faced a great defeat, his head hung within gloved hands. The crisp black slacks, the dark cap, and the heavy vermilion coat remained on after several minutes; he remained silent, not meeting her eyes even when she sank down next to him. It was only when she tried to slide a warm hand into the lapels of his uniform did he react, wrenching away from her as if she was a poisonous serpent.

A deep flush seeped into the soldier's cheeks, cursing his naïvety. "How much are you? I'll pay twice, thrice, whatever it is―"

Suddenly, her alluring face soured into a tight frown. "I don't accept charity." She purred with venomous sweetness. "You can't pay the fee without receiving the pound of flesh."

The nymph smiled beneath long lashes, the ruffles of her dress slipping to reveal a milk-pale shoulder. She made no move to replace it, instead laying five ginger fingers on his thigh, laughing airily at his expression. "Tell me, wealthy colonel, would you prefer the traditional way, or to lie back? You have such a lovely, delicate face, you might get mistaken for a woman that way."

"―If." The words stuck in his throat. "If I allow you, I _must_ have you swear you won't tell, not a soul. Not even while drunk. Not even as a joke. If you tell anyone―" He glanced down at the pistol at his waist, but Elise was already busy removing it, ignoring his passionless response as she left scarlet crescents against his throat.

"Men come here all the time, trying to rid the look of despair only marriage can invoke. They lose themselves in the illusion of freedom. Though you don't seem the kind to have a wife, at so young―"

"Your _oath_." He insisted, firm.

"Yes, my solemn promise. Come now, do I look so stupid? If I were to start revealing customers' secrets, the business would go out." Her smile flickered, curious eyes slitting. "You have my word. And a kiss to seal the deal."

He made a noise of grudging agreement, and allowed the young whore to chastely close their distance, even tolerating the daring slip of tongue as nimble hands worked at the uniform's brass buttons, finally exposing a thin, pale undershirt beneath. And here, Dominique stiffened against her. Even Elise seemed truly surprised, slowly pulling back, leaving only the taste of wine and powder on the other's lips.

There had been many comments in the past about the colonel's body, too slender and looking far too fragile to be a man's, countless idle swooning about the elegant lines of the soldier's face, the large eyes, the lack of distasteful masculine hair. But while all those may have been true, a semi-deep voice and flatness of the torso had stopped gossip from going any father. However, within those wildest of rumors, there would've been the purest truth.

While small, there were two slightly raised curves beneath the plain shirt. And, as Elise would later find out, Dominique most definitely lacked a man's stiff scepter of kinghood.

"A woman?" The word was faint as it left Elise's lips; a hand reached out to confirm there was indeed flesh, and not just imaginings. After laying her fingers against one breast, a quiet, pained sigh left Dominique, her strictest secrets now bare.

"Yes," She confessed in a low murmur, closing her eyes in shame as the fairiette had yet to move, instead thumbing a soft, pink-peach nipple. Dominique shied away, but the other girl was surprisingly determined, and kept her weight upon her, forcing her to lean back into the moth-eaten stuffing of their shared and stained mattress. With a single swift movement, the cap was knocked off and promptly forgotten as Dominique freed her arms from the brilliant pelt of her coat, letting it fall to the floor, and Elise now moved her hand to the thinnest layer, pulling that up as well.

"Why do you dress up as a man?" Came the teasing inquiry, as steady hands glided lower, now undoing the front clasps of the pants. "Is it your way of playing war? Feeling insecure, are you, about your country's fate against Caspilene?"

She forced herself to look away as her bare legs were exposed to warm air, so cloying she could almost taste the thick, sugary scent of perfume. But beyond just initial humiliation at being pleasured, though was also a note of dread and concern in her gaze. Her country's fate? Were the gossips that fierce, that now there was word of battle being waged? Queen Anyaliavich may have had enemies because of her place of descent, but she would not commit war against her own homeland to prove her loyalties!

"No." Dominique's voice was quiet, but fierce with a kind of intense devotion. "This isn't a game to me. I'll happily die for Mondediolle, just as any other soldier would."

"Except for that bunch outside." She flinched violently as the whorelett pressed a warm kiss to the inside of her thigh. "How ironic, that the best gentleman, is not a man at all."

"Don't insult my platoon. Do you realize, that by foul-mouthing them, you are insulting me, and by extension, the Queen herself?" The bitterness rose in her voice, but was quickly stifled by a guttural noise of pain, for Elise had suddenly gave a sharp nip to her sensitive skin.

"Fine, there's been enough talk." Dominique muttered; the wound was soothed by soft movements; she sighed deeply, refusing to let her breathing hitch in a girlish way.

Twin dark burrows were covered by the too-long bangs of wheat-colored hair, grown unruly and at varying lengths from the brutal shaving upon her enlistment, her stern face flushed brilliantly with blood burning beneath the paper-pale skin, pulse beating erratically against the thin arc of her wrist pressed down into the moth-infested pillow. At the persuasion of fanciful touches and burning caresses, the tight line of her mouth instead gasped open to take in brutish, noisy breaths, her throat sawdust-dry, her tongue shriveled in her mouth, stinking of the wine, the chocolate―the image of poise and perfection split open.

It was a foul place, the bed of disease and filth of their indulgence, and still reeking from the feasts of lovelorn romantics and kings, there was a soft, guttural grunt under her breath, a surge of pseudo-male dominance when the pale flag was raised at last, managing to reverse their positions, Dominique lowering herself to the fine divide between milk-kissed, moonshine twining legs and bone-fine thighs―the blue heart of a man clenched tightly in shame as Elise cried out and twisted in passionate aches.

Two fingers, rid of their prim and proper gloves, now nude to the darkness, tempted and stroked that tiny scarlet jewel of her body, exhilarated and delirious on her own lust and power.

Initiation, impalement.

Later, Dominique emerged victorious, face flushed as if she had just consumed ten bottles of wine straight, still struggling to catch her breath, torn between satisfaction at the crude cheers, and hideous outrage at herself for enjoying, in that single moment, the feeling of existing in their eyes.

* * *

It had gone too dark for them to return that evening, so, after taking up lodgings into a small inn, Dominique swore they would all head out at the first light of morning, half-asleep on their horses or not.

Slumber did marvelous wonders for the colonel's curious mood; by dawn, her frustrations had temporarily mellowed, though her satisfaction was admittedly more schadenfreude at the men dearly regretting their consumption of the previous night, groaning about awful pains and aches, while she reveled in the lightness and youthful strength of her own muscles and the clearness of thought, having refrained from the devil's drink.

However, dark wisps of regret also began creeping in, ruining her concentration as she unloaded the heavy bags of flour and wheat from her horse, their original purpose of dropping off supplies nearly all but forgotten. She remembered _Mademoiselle_ E.'s silken words of promise, and now, she couldn't help but curse herself for falling for such sweet-tongued lies: whores were not honest people, for any generous amount, they would sell secrets as easily as flesh. What solemn oath did she have that the girl would stay to her word? True, she had slipped in a substantially larger amount than what was due when it came time for payment, but a nymph like Elise was an endlessly greedy sort.

The sky was a snow-plain with cool fog, a gorgeous smear of soft violets and buttercup-gold at the horizon, seen through the branches just starting to sprout new tender leaves and flowers, barely behind the silhouettes of semi-respectable homes and odd-shops along streets of shambles. At this time in Mondediolle, thick scents of fresh sweet-breads and cured meats would pleasantly waft throughout the air, but in the city of Beauholm there was no such luxury, only the faint charred smell of fires being lit by street urchins.

She was just about to turn back in, to chastise her troops for taking such a slow time at dressing, when the urgent slapping of bare feet against cobblestone caught her ear, and she turned on reflex, only to be smacked into by a frantic young creature, undoubtedly female, by the delicate lines of the face, and the thick bundle of dark-gold curls tied back with a simple ribbon, but that was all the sight she was afforded before the girl toppled to the ground, taking Dominique with her. She landed painfully, but she was thankful her pistol had not gone off, or that she had not accidentally sliced herself on her sword, even though her elbows throbbed in agony from the shock of stone against frail bone. Instead of apologizing, the waif was already trying to disengage their tangled limbs and scramble to her feet, but the wronged soldier took firm grip of her shoulders to cease her flailing.

"Now, stop this fuss!" She said, perhaps more harshly than intended, for the girl ceased immediately, wilting in her grip. She took her by the chin, and forced her to meet her gaze. "It's rude to push down a soldier, let alone without apologizing. And now you won't even meet my eyes, haven't you ever learned any respect?"

The young girl shook her head, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth. Getting a closer look at her, Dominique could see she had fine features, with high cheekbones framed by unruly, soft curls and large, weeping eyes the color of sweet-chocolate. Her skin had the hue of fair porcelain, though she suspected it was not from natural paleness as it was from hunger. She was not beautiful, but held a sort of pitiful adorableness about her; there was a pathetic appeal to her worn expression coupled with such a natural innocence. Her pastel dress was patched and frayed, her fingernails caked with dirt, as were thin ankles and feet equally blackened.

Under Dominique's scrutiny, those paper-pale cheeks flushed deeply, and the blood-blossom stuttered out an apology, and while her voice was sweet, she spoke with such atrocious grammar and childish wording that it grated on the soldier's ears. "I―I'm most sorry, _monsieur_!" She apologized, almost wailing, her face now nearly scarlet.

She shook her head to show it was fine, releasing those shoulders brittle enough to fit into the palm of her gloved hands, She stood, pulling the urchin up as she did, wiping off dust and dirt off her uniform. The girl continued gracelessly, "Sorry, _monsieur_ , I really are―I just, well, you see―every week or so, soldiers come to drop off food, supplies, and such like that―you haven't yet seen any, have you―?"

Dominique gave her a slow look, hoping realization would dawn on her. Was she so ignorant, she couldn't recognize the royal military uniform when she saw it? Apparently not, for several moments later, she was met with the same pleading gaze. "I am that soldier." She told the girl, gesturing to the last of the barrels and boxes she had relieved herself of.

The smile that burst on the girl's face was the most honest, joyful expression Dominique had ever seen. So great was this child's happiness, she couldn't recall if she had ever made such an expression, and, with a twinge of pain, she remembered she had never seen the Queen ever look as pleased as this wretched orphan.

She nodded. "They're far too heavy for you to take in yourself; the other men will come out and help in due time." With that, she started to mount her dark stallion, but a timid tug at her coat held her back. It was a weak force, with no more strength than a butterfly. She gave the girl an inquiring look, but she needed no prompt to speak.

"May I...have your name?" She asked.

"Dominique Knight, colonel." She said, not understanding why this scrap of information was so dear to her.

"My name is Rosette." The girl replied in kind, despite not being asked.

In a moment of affection―perhaps because she felt pity for her, or maybe the reason was she reminded her of Anya, in that she was so young, and yet had so much burden to bear―Dominique reached out, gingerly taking that limp hand within her own, and bent low to kiss it.

"Well then, it is a pleasure to meet you." She greeted. With that, she took hold of the reins, and left that cruel, wretched city of Beauholm, its great buildings crumbling and shops empty, where the men were drunken pigs and the women were whores, and pretty young girls starved for no reason, no reason at all.

Rosette, her heart fluttering madly, watched as the handsome soldier rose off, her kissed hand warm and trembling against her chest, eyes still set on the colonel's fading shadow, long after she had disappeared.

Even as the sun later rose over the city, Dominique returning to her home, immensely glad to finally have her own privacy and treating herself to a plate of rose jelly and chocolates, Rosette gathering firewood for her own warmth later that bitter evening, a spirited glimmer of hope in her eyes, neither of them in their wildest of imaginings could've been able to foretell the great tragedy that awaited them!

For, despite Dominique's faith and Queen Anyaliavich's optimism, the people of Mondediolle were stirring beneath their thrones of wealth. It was slow, it was steady, but gradually, the restrained temper of the people were coming to a breaking point. Not far off, people full of blameless anger at their own injustice and misfortunes had found the ideal scapegoat in their young, foreign ruler. Truth be told, Anya indeed was a fair enough Queen, but the papers tended to exaggerate her home country's past that was strewn with death, painting her as some kind of tyrant come over to claim this land for Caspilene's own! _Madame_ Murderer, she was called. A Crowning Shame, her marriage ceremony was mocked.

Faith was indeed wavering, and foul word was traveling, and while the poor wanted bread and meat, the blue-blooded also desired a rebellion for their own personal gain, to amass the endless power and riches they craved but could not possess. Greed only fed greed, and fury led to bloodshed.

All of this would inevitably yield a darker horizon, with the flames of revolution not far off.


	5. Chapter Four

In actuality, the country of Caspilene was not as brutal as it had been papered as in Mondediolle; they did not have soldiers trained to kill on sight in their military, nor were there nightly patrols in every street, the men were not all battle-hardened, and the women were not cunning thieves who would lure any wandering man into an alley, slit his throat, and deprive him of all his riches. Just as Mondediolle had their share of propaganda in the last three decades, during the Great Wars, so did Caspilene: to them, Mondediolle was filled with those of elegant culture and delicate manners, but beneath the veneer of civility, they were infinitely cruel and ruthless. Their paper fans and petty flowers were but mere trifles; conversation was an art of war there.

Even though a treaty had been signed over two years ago, and made official upon the condition of Caspilene's Anyaliavich Belovarezhnaya's marriage to Alfons Holcombe of Mondediolle, there still were patriots, blinded and bitter from years of war, that refused to accept that the battles had ceased. It was these sort of people that were so wary and malicious towards Anya, and it was because of this lingering hostility that a secret decree was passed, that as long as the marriage between the two royal children was binding, a Caspilene could not set a foot in Mondediolle territory, and vice versa. Unfortunately for the desperately lonely Queen, this included all methods of communication, so unbeknownst to her, her countless letters, pleading for reassurance, had never met their destination.

And so it was for her older sister, the intended recipient, Alda. She had no idea of her sweet sibling's despair, and naturally assumed she was living a life of unfathomable joy and endless comfort. Originally, she had been intended as the bride, but being unable to bear children, her sister had been wed in her place, and she bore her no grudge for that. The day they parted had been a happy one, for both had fully believed that in a few short weeks time, they would be reunited. Instead, there was only two long years of emptiness and growing doubts, for just as Anya's precious letters fell short, Alda's increasingly insistent notes, imploring her youngest sister for word of her health and happiness, never left the country. Left guessing and without direction, she could only pray her sister was simply so busy with balls and royal parties she hadn't the time to write, but she couldn't help the dark, creeping worries that perhaps she had been forgotten entirely.

_My dearest little Anyali,_

_How long has it been, since I last saw your radiant smiling face? Queenship must suit you well, for while you were adorable two years prior, now you must be the shining gem of the court, with your pearl-color skin and bright eyes. Your husband must feel very privileged to have you as such a fine companion, and I hope he is treating you very kindly. But please, although money is of no consequence, don't overindulge yourself in sweets like I know you're fond of doing; it wouldn't do for your complexion or health. Life must be glorious at the Mondediolle palace, you're probably attending a dozen parties a night! I am so happy, that you can be afforded such luxury and joy._

_The people under your rule must be very honest, there hasn't been news breaking of so much as a minor skirmish, ever since you've been crowned. With the people's strong admiration for you, they have no room to harbor cruel intentions! You must have many lovely friends and servants, do take care not to tease them too badly, my beloved, mischievous imp! Even the hard-hearted soldiers must greatly respect you, for there's been talk of how Mondediolle's army is top-notch and first rate_ ― _quite a daunting task to achieve!_

_Here at home, the days have been passing in a lilac haze, as the girls have begun wearing floral perfumes and thick, lacy dresses in efforts to attract sturdy young men, for with new seasons come new love, I suppose. And on the topic of changes, mother and father have taken to discussing the adoption into our family as of late, isn't that grand? Oh, no, don't sour your pretty face like that! You're probably thinking something silly like you're being replaced, but that's pure rubbish! They claim they want to give me a little sister, though no matter how cute she is, how kind-natured, she'll never compare to you. Even if by a little bit, I'll love you more, for you'll forever be my first precious sister._

_I cherish our memories together, Anyali, and to make some more would be divine. Hopefully I have not yet slipped from your mind? But nevermind, no, I know you must be fluttering from day to day, to and fro with business and balls, perish the thought of my foolish request! When you desire it, we shall be reunited. Until then, I will wait. For now, I will send you kisses, and all the stars in the sky._

The letter lay neatly on her writing desk; she had yet to fold it and envelope it, perhaps slipping in a pressed wildflower or two. _Please, my darling, write!_ She prayed fervently, tempted to add to her note, but forced herself to refrain; she couldn't bear to have Anyali endure the weight of her loneliness and combined guilt. Instead, all she could do was send her love, and wait for a response that seemed like it would never come.

Alda was nineteen years old, and bore much of the fine facial structure that her sister did. The same thin, delicate cheekbones, the same snip of a nose and regal mouth. However, while Anya liked to wear her hair pinned up and in curls, Alda's coffee-colored locks were thick and wavy, like their father's, and she allowed it to fall freely down to her waist. She wore sensible dresses in rich colors, with thick cuts of jewels on her wrists, and liked adding a hat or gloves when going out, for the sun often burnt her skin. While Anya was easily excitable and brimming with child-like adoration and wonderment, the older of the two sisters did not like drawing attention to herself, for she was easily flustered, and cursed with an extreme shyness. She tended to break down in tears if teased badly enough, for her heart was overly-sensitive as well; hardly the personality befitting such an old, regal family.

It was no small wonder she was being replaced. It was obvious that Thomas and Rebecca Belovarezhnaya preferred their youngest daughter over their first: Anya was more beautiful, refined, and barely out of childhood, she was already a bride, the Queen of an entire country, and would soon bear an heir, while Alda had no achievements whatsoever to her name, being a barren woman, who was more timid of the world than even the most easily-frightened of small children. Anya was a flourishing rose, a glorious blossom; Alda was a thorny stem. It wouldn't do for their good family name to be tarnished by such a blight, and without another marriageable child to bring fortune and fame, they were pressured to do whatever they could to brighten their reputation. This is how the terms of adoption were brought up. Alda knew, that within mere hours, they would be receiving a small girl by the name Leonora, who was called animal-like by orphanages and utterly unmanageable by workhouses―for what could bring them better popularity than taking a coal-black rock and transforming it into a shining gem?

Had Alda been a more vulnerable girl, one whose heart could easily fall victim to bitterness and jealousy, she would've struck against her parents' wishes, banishing such an unwelcome child from her home. However, Alda had a soft heart, though unfortunately, it was this very virtue that was partly to blame for her undoing in her parents' eyes: she was soft, yes, _too_ much so, for she could never summon enough of a shell against insults to speak up for herself, merely bearing the burden of being inferior and suffering in silence, her heart steadily losing its vigor and faith, and her happiness ultimately disappearing, bit by bit. She bore no grudge, merely strong envy towards this Leonora, and a deep yearning that she too, would one day be treated in the same manner.

If only she had known, ironically enough, that Anya felt the same way towards her, envious of her droll days and the little weight of her existence upon people's lives. How she would laugh, what she would give to be so insignificant, so free!

" _Mademoiselle_?" A maid had come to fetch her, her plain milk-wash hands folded over her apron, though Alda felt that she too would be wearing that same uniform, before long. She nodded, finishing applying a dab of perfume and adjusting the heavy bracelet at her wrist. It was time to meet her new sister.

She ascended the stairs in a royal blue gown, her corset bone-pale and long legs trembling. At the door stood her parents; Rebecca, with her hazel hair tightly pulled back into an elegant bun and wearing a frilled peacock-green dress, Thomas with the remains of his powdered hair hidden beneath a smart black hat, wearing a crisp suit and dark puce coat. Neither were looking at her, instead their heads were turned towards the door, so it was impossible to see their expressions, however, their voices floating up from the front hallway were kinder than she had ever heard, though there was a definite strained tinge of frustration to their voices, as if they had been forced to drag the girl in after them.

"Come, come closer, Leonora." Her mother had her hand extended, as if one would do to a wild animal. Through a forest of legs, Alda couldn't see the child in question until Thomas stepped back a bit, leaving room for his daughter to pass. Little by little, a dark shape crawled forward on all fours, and Alda took an anxious step back, before realizing _what_ , or rather, _who_ it was.

"That― _that_ is to be my little sister?" The question was so faint, she wasn't even aware of the words passing through her lips, but it was enough to catch the creature's keen hearing, for immediately, a pair of deep green eyes caught her gaze, and Alda realized with a horrid crash of her heart, crushing her last hope of denial, that it was indeed human.

But it did not look any bit remotely resembling a human. True, the girl-pet had been forced into a pale pink dress with fluted ruffles―with the sudden agony of nostalgia, Alda recognized it as one of Anya's old party outfits―and she did have the faint silhouette of a female, but there rest was obscured by long, wavy hair that was hopelessly tangled in knots, partially obscuring her face and dragging on the floor, so filthy that Alda wouldn't even be able tell what color it was, if it weren't for the occasional glimpse of brilliant gold beneath the grime. She was barefoot, her nails chipped and cracked, her knees scratched, and the loose collar of Anya's dress revealing faded scars of a whip on her back. The girl didn't speak, instead made a series of strange, animalistic noises, growling and crying out like a beast.

Without exchanging a word of greeting, she slipped past unnoticed to retreat to the sanctity of the garden. The Belovarezhnaya garden was glorious field of exotic flowers and huge, ancient trees, practically a forest of its own, but Alda's feet trampled the soft carpet of delicate gold and red petals, unnoticed as she rushed past the fragrant violets and vanilla-hue lilies, the drooping branches of the weeping willows, as if yearning for some tragic dream, and she eventually flung herself into the damp shadow of a crooked trunk, half-curled into the ground, as if an invitation for her to rest.

Trembling in misery and sunk in a deep emptiness she would never be able to fill without her beloved sister, Alda could only offer her own arms to weep upon and comfort herself, surrendering to her anxieties and nightmares that had only grown with Anya's absence.

"Oh Anyali, I miss you! Come back to me, please!"

Her eyes having not yet run dry and her cheeks soaked, she desperately turned her gaze to the dazzling blue sky of a new spring, the sun bright and warm against her skin though the shadows of thick leaves, and yet, there was nothing but winter in her heart!

* * *

While both sisters remained blind to each other's agony, Alda was not the only one in ignorance of her sister's despair, for many people of Mondediolle assumed their Queen was a happy swine, surrounded by luxury, never to lift a finger, never to fill her head with troubles, only pleasure―many desired those same circumstances that she so longed to escape. She wore dresses of the finest silk and necklaces of pure silver, envied by women and lusted after by men, she ate her fill and then continued to wastefully dine, merely to deprive the poor of more bread and meat, she slept with the soldiers and corrupted the King, all the while wearing an angelic smile to hide her true face, that of a wasp that would sting all who disobeyed. Envied and hated, adored and loathed, Queen Anyaliavich was indeed an idol of intense emotion!

Most of all, for a young girl named Saliette, whose skin was paper-thin and bones glass-fragile, her hair, lips, and skin the color of rich snow, while her eyes were a brilliant scarlet. The pale witchlett, as other children were prone to call her, had resided in the city of Beauholm as long as she could remember, though it was only recently that she had come under the employment of the workhouse. Oh, how she longed to bathe in rose, honey, and milk, how she yearned to drape herself in jewels and furs!

Saliette's heart that had been coal-black since her birth, but it was important to remember, that her greed and malice had been born out of a deep loneliness―it was not material wealth of the Queen she desired, so much as the rewards of devotion and love, however, she had become twisted and deceived in her past, so much so, that to Saliette, she perceived the shallow depths of gifts as a token of undying loyalty. Her Highness Anyaliavich was showered with rare, expensive gifts beyond her wildest dreams, and so she must have known only love and kindness, Saliette thought, and like this, the black blossom of jealousy began to take root. The same age as her, yet the foreign ruler was filled joy and bliss, suffering none of her own passionate aches and misfortune, not a drop of her misery!

At only fifteen years old, Saliette was a murderer. An orphaned bastard, a mistake, it was perhaps the same helpless lust that drove Electra that spurned her own misdeeds. It had all begun, this cruel twist of fate of the albinic girl's life, some seventeen years prior: Richard Panettiete, a charismatic and wealthy young man who had inherited a great deal of money from his blue-blooded father, often drank to the point of his heart's sickness, making merry with a woman on each arm, he fully believed the days of wasteful youth would be eternal. Of course, by that moment in time, he had already been wed to a shy girl named Edith some two years past, as she gave him food, lodgings, and of course, services of the flesh without any charge, while he was free to roam however he wished when out. He favorite mistress was a haughty young thing, the daughter of a high aristocrat, named Vanessa von Vane.

But Richard was a coward, for despite his supposed pledges of love, when he discovered her pregnancy he abandoned her, thrusting her away, back into the safe arms of her wealthy family. While Vanessa, who was not quite yet full with child, loathed anything that would confine her reckless pleasure. Her various attempts at aborting the infant had failed, and upon birth, she has horrified at her child's ghastly colorless appearance, but was unable to kill her. Leaving her in the care of her servants and banishing her to a guest house, Vanessa isolated herself from Saliette, claiming the mother was one of her maids, while Richard never again returned to his lover.

Saliette eventually grew into a young woman, yet remained shuttered inside, knowing only the cruelty of the world, for she was so hideous, she was told, that she would be killed out of revulsion if she set so much as one foot out into sunlight. Eventually, her caretaker died from sickness and overwork, and Saliette demanded the truth out of her "mother's" awful mistress―and so she was told, everything about her illegitimate birth, her father, and that Vanessa von Vane was her true blood mother!

She could not dwell long on thoughts of revenge, however, for she was then cast out of the von Vane home into the streets, as her mother too had been, long before her time. Unloved, unwanted, she eventually adapted to the life of an urchin, stealing food or else facing starvation, her blackened heart determined to find the man who gave her life, then cruelly abandoned her. If it was blood on her mind, it was quickly vanquished with a deep emptiness that only been torn wider with the years―she sought not his life, but his love! At last, whether at the mercy of a kind deity, or for the amusement of a sadist God, her patience was rewarded, for R. Panettiete did eventually return to Beauholm, as he occasionally still sought out its women, having long forgotten the incident of fifteen years prior. He mistook Saliette as a child-prostitute, coming down upon her in an alley. Saliette's heart was full of joy, unable to differentiate between lust and love, but her thrilled delight quickly turned to tragic realization when he reacted little to her cries of distress and pain, impaling his young bride with brutal pleasure.

"Father!" She cried, unable to free herself. "Father, _please!_ "

She wept, her tiny hands grasping her salvation, and brought the brick down with vicious force.

Later, dragging herself from the corpse, her dress soaked with blood, young Saliette only fell deeper into hatred and anguish. Mere weeks after, it was pure luck she had managed to find some sort of work, for the pay, as low as it was, meant food―the factory also served as a safe house to avoid the authorities, for beneath this shelter, she had escaped arrest. However, there was still no peace: she dreamt of blood, and often awoke shuddering in fright at the onslaught of unimaginable agony, as if her body was being ripped into halves. Oh, Queen Anyaliavich, how she loathed her, how she loved her! Saliette wanted all of that for her own, but her wish was unfulfilled, and would remain so, it seemed, until death.

 _Is my future to be naught but a void?_ She despaired to herself, her fingers sore and bloodied from stabbing herself with the needle instead of the tough leather.

"You! You, girl, don't throw yourself into the streets, out of the way!" A voice called, frantic, but Saliette had grown sluggish from hunger, and had no time to dash away from the turning wheels of an amok carriage―she was thrown to the cobblestone, her arm shattered beneath her battered frame, but the breath remained in her body.

"Blood, blood! Mother, you've spilled blood onto the road!" Wailed a much younger voice than the first, and through blurred vision, Saliette could see a child rushing from the carriage, either to gather her remains or drag her aside for the crows to feed on, like carrion.

"Mother, come! She breathes, she lives! We should take a doctor here, at once!" The girl cried, cradling her ruined arm, the sleeve ruined with her own vermilion life.

"Victoria, we haven't the time! We're on our way to Mondediolle, and to arrive before seven is the ideal!"

But her daughter ignored her, instead appearing fascinated with her victim. "Look! What eyes, what hair! She is no ordinary girl, come look!"

The horses upset and trampling their hooves with a thunderous sound, Saliette groaned and tried to free her arm from Victoria's gentle hold. At last, _Madame_ Elizabeth descended the stairs of her carriage to where her daughter was, suspicion in her eyes. "She's probably just a prostitute, lost on her way home from selling favors! She's of no grief to us, let us part!"

"Ridiculous! Look, she's trying to speak! Quiet the horses, I cannot hear when her voice is so faint! Come, what's your name? Where did you come from?" Victoria asked kindly, stroking her brow.

"―Saliette―de Sandwich―" She groaned, delirious from the pain of her splintered bones, but her mind was not too clouded to concoct such a lie. She invented wildly, for she knew her life depended on it. "My father―Count de Sandwich―cast me out, after my mother died―" She bit back a sob when her arm was jostled as Victoria shifted, so that she could lie in her lap. Fortunately, the latter took it as a cry of sorrow at reliving her past. 

"Mother, clearly she's fallen upon hard times! Cast out and abandoned, how cruel! We need to take her to a doctor, if she is to survive the night! She can explain the rest when the danger is through!" Gullible, sweet Victoria pleaded with her mother. After a moment, Elizabeth stood aside, allowing her to lift the child and lay her across the seats. By the time the carriage started moving once more, Saliette had fallen into blissful unconsciousness, but another set of wheels were also turning, that of an irreversible fate!

* * *

When she revived, Saliette found herself lying in a soft bed, her arm bandaged and gingerly suspended in a sling, away from her body. She had but a plain sheet over her, and beneath it she saw she been stripped, her raggedy dress replaced with a cool gown scented of lavender. She was in a small, dreadfully stark room, the off-pale walls worn with cracks, with but a single bed, a chair, and a stepping stool for furniture, with not a portrait nor mirror in sight, lace curtains drawn over the single window. At her bedside, Victoria patiently sat, holding a flickering candle. Now that she was no longer half-blinded, Saliette could get a proper look at her savior. 

Victoria wore a scalloped, fitting dress with a delicate floral pattern, with sleeves not so conservative as to hide her cream-colored skin that contrasted sharply with her long, lustrous black hair, waves of shining crow-dark curls stopping at her waist, with trusting sea-blue eyes―she had soft, maternal hands that held Saliette's broken, dangling one: if someone at moment had walked in on the two, she could've been mistaken for her nurse. However, she was far from the picture a goddess: there was a sharp expectancy in her gaze, and the way she drew herself tightly together to avoid getting dust on her shoes: the girl may have been kind, but she was also spoiled, and eager for gossip.

"Are you all right, Saliette de Sandwich?" She asked, her thick lashes looking matted by tears in the candlelight, surely just a trick of the eyes. "The doctor said it was a miracle you survived. Five more minutes, and..." She trailed off, but hurriedly regained her line of thought. "Your arm will take some time to heal, and when it does, it will be very stiff, you'll have to move it slowly for quite a while. When the bones are sufficiently repaired, you'll be moved to a guest room; for now, though, you'll have to reside here in one of the furniture's room. I'm sorry, but the doctor said not to move you, or we'd be risking even more breakage."

"I'm alive," Murmured Saliette, still disoriented. "That's all that matters."

"Yes, of course, yes―I'm sure later, once you get some rest and food, you'll tell us all about your family! You poor thing, what an awful life you've had! Imagine, being rejected simply because of looks. Personally," She giggled and leaned in, as if imparting a secret. "I adore your hair. You look as if you've tumbled out of heaven, all pale and washed clean!"

"My hair?" She groggily took a handful, and saw it had indeed had been soaped and rinsed, so that her natural ringlets were thick and glossy.

"And yet, your eyes are the color of devils! How curious, how delightful! If I brought you to a ball with me, you'd be the talk of the evening!" Victoria squealed, clapping her hands together. "Did your mother take you to many balls? You must have, being the daughter of a Count. Mother occasionally goes with me, but usually I take a carriage by myself. I attend weekly balls held by either the Morington or the Gatsburg families, but for you, I'm sure they aren't much!"

Saliette shook her head slowly. "No, no―that would be wonderful. I would love to go."

"Good, good, oh, it'll be so much fun! You're practically my sister now, Saliette, I'll take you everywhere! Of course, it's not all fun and games, though―I also attend the Luce Correctional School for Boys and Girls during the week, you'd have to be enrolled as well."

"School―?"

But her faint question was ignored as Victoria talked on, caught up in the excitement. "The classes aren't much, really―but they do have their worth, I suppose. I can read, did you know?" She said this with a great deal of pride, puffing out her chest. "I can, two whole books now! But be careful of the teacher," Her joyful face soured. " _Monsieur_ Luce. He's a terrible man, he beats you with a rod or stick if you make a mistake, or if you're a girl, sometimes you have to stay after school. If you're wise, you too will watch your behavior around him. He may act kind if you get a paper right or answer a question correctly, and sometimes he gives rewards like candies or small toys, but―"

"...But?" Saliette's voice wavered, she shivered at the thought of being a alone with such a man.

Victoria lowered her voice. "―But it's not a reward, it's a bribe. He'll ask favors of you, he'll want you to do awful things. It's disgusting!"

"Oh, no! I don't want to go to such a place!" Saliette cried, but her hand was reassuringly squeezed.

"Worry not! I'll watch out for you. You're not a wicked girl, so you won't get punished." Victoria smiled earnestly. She stood, heading towards the door. "But don't worry about that; you just sleep."

"...May I ask, what is your name?" Saliette's voice floated after her.

She paused, and turned around. "Of course; I'm Victoria Panettiete." she replied, and snuffed out the candle flame.

Her heart jumped. "...Do you have any sisters?"

The older girl laughed. "No, no. I have a few cousins, who are like siblings to me, but no actual blood-tied sisters."

"...What's their father's name?" She asked lowly, one hand tightly gripping the sheet, nearly tearing it.

"Now, silly, why does that matter? His name was Richard, if you really want to know, but there's no use in knowing it, now that you can't meet him―his funeral was a week ago."

She closed the door before Saliette could ask any more, leaving her in darkness, and her head bursting with troubling questions.


	6. Chapter Five

Never, never did she imagine she would be the sort of girl who snuck around in secret, who paid for prostitutes for questionable information and resorted to visits with unscrupulous apothecaries, making dark deals in secret and forcing herself to serve in the company of drunken brutes, to hear but a single word, a magic name that, ever since the day she had heard it first uttered, had enchanted and delighted her, thrilled her and frightened her with the depths of her intense desire. Dominique! Dominique! It had been but a month, four long arduous weeks, and all she had to endure it was but a few moments of memory: dark eyes, pale blonde hair, a soldier's uniform, and that was all. Whispered words haunted her dreams and taunted her flesh, leaving her slumberless and yearning for some kind, any kind of physical satisfaction.

Four weeks, and Rosette was already beginning to doubt if the handsome soldier had ever appeared at all, if it was not some sweet, rose-scented dream, a mere fantasy of hers to ward off loneliness, and yet, she remembered those hands powerfully gripping her by the shoulders, then gently holding her hand the next. And the kiss! It had become a consuming passion of hers, to feel those lips again! Every day, when she had finished her long work as a dressmaker, Rosette would return to her home―a small, abandoned room that had been ravaged by fire a year prior and never properly restored―and savor her wonderful memory. She had been working harder than ever lately, in order to finish early and rush off to home, or to the inn where she had last seen him, and because of her diligent devotion, she sometimes was rewarded with an extra leaf of cabbage or a whole loaf of bread! Yes, Rosette's life had taken a fortunate turn, ever since she had met him!

On off days, she often visited the apothecary, for she had long grown tired of telling Rosette that no matter how hard she tried, there was no such concoction that would incite feelings of love within a person. No matter how she pleaded and begged, she was met with rejections each and every time. She was told, however, that there was such a thing as a mixture that would inflame not love or adoration, but a strong, nigh irresistible physical attraction―she had immediately purchased it, using a whole week's wage in the process, clutching the little bag, ashamed of herself and yet unable to still the pounding of her heart.

Or occasionally she even visited the filthier parts of the city, to the vile whorehouses―Dominique was a man, after all, and even one as good-natured as he had base desires to fulfill. But unfortunately, going into such a place was easier said than done: she often lingered by the door until late at night, waiting for all the customers to leave, and then hid in the shadows whenever they passed by, so to not expose her face, and perhaps be mistaken for a prostitute herself. And when she summoned enough courage to actually step through the doors, she was often laughed out― _female_ customers were unheard of, after all.

But tonight, she felt, would be different. She had washed herself the best she could with plain gutter water, and wore a respectable, long-sleeved, ankle-length gray dress, the cleanest she could find, even though it was missing buttons and the edges were a little frayed. Her dark blonde hair was not tied back, instead, she let freely curl around her shoulders and upper arms, relishing the feeling of independence it gave her.

And to her luck, business was indeed slow. Struggling to keep the spots of humiliated blush out of her cheeks, Rosette closed her fist over a handful of coins, willing herself not to lose faith as she took two, three steps inside.

"E-excuse me, _madames_ , but―I was wondering―if I could―could―" Words, so carefully practiced, now tumbled out of her mouth with little order or meaning, Rosette felt herself tremble, and she fought desperately against the urge to turn and run. She took a shallow breath, trying to steady herself. "If I could―"

"―Buy one of you, yes. No, not for the whole night. An hour, just an hour."

Rosette felt her blood stop its vital flow in her veins, the coins in her hand dropping onto the floor, slipping free of her loosened fist. Did she dare to turn and look? Was that really the voice to whom she fervently prayed it belonged to? Her knees began to buckle, and she felt herself collapse to the floorboards, before a strong hand took her by the wrist and prevented the fall, jerking her shoulder painfully as it did so, as if she was a mere doll.

She opened her eyes, bursting full of hope she barely dared to acknowledge―and so it was! The perfection of her memory was immediately revitalized, and she could see all of him again―the gentle expression, tinged with worry, those hands, eyes, mouth, voice, all of it, tangible and warm! Her breath was stolen from her in that single touch, her heart almost despairing at the force of her immediate rapture, a little death, in a single moment!

Dominique! And yet, she could not bring herself to utter his name, her voice temporarily stolen. "D-Domini―"

He stared down at her with cruel ignorance, before recognition flooded those eyes, and she could breathe in the scent of leather and cologne once more. But the soldier's expression was not one of happiness, and his gaze, instead of lingering on her face, skirted low to her feet, where the coins were scattered. He seemed to have realized something, for his gaze suddenly shifted into tragic pity.

He released her wrist, gesturing to the ground. "You shouldn't leave your pay just lying there." He murmured, and her heart shattered. He thought she was one of _them!_ A whore! A harlot! No, no, he had it all wrong!

Rosette started to fiercely shake her head, her vision blurred by tears, but she was stopped at his next announcement. "―Her. I would like her." His hand rested at her shoulder.

Was this a dream? Was she going mad? Was it honestly, truly going to be this way, losing the last threads that still connected her to childhood, crossing over into mature womanhood, on a used bed, in a disgusting whorehouse, being _paid_ for the whole ordeal? No, no! She didn't want just intimacy of the flesh! Rosette longed for love, to be cherished wholly, not just for what her body could provide. And yet―yet―as Dominique escorted her to one of the back rooms, she couldn't bring herself to turn away.

The door lock clicked into place, and she closed her eyes, trembling. She nearly cringed at the hand taking ginger grip of her arm. "Sit down, why don't you? Don't look so scared."

Ah, how she had longed to hear those words, those very words, whispered into her ear! Rosette opened her eyes almost against her will, and upon seeing his dark silhouette framed against the door, a bright blush stained her cheeks, as she barely managed to catch herself upon rudely falling upon the mattress.

She once again closed her eyes, trying to still the racing of her tender heart, when a heavy weight settled down next to her, the springs creaking beneath them. "Open your hands." Rosette did so, feeling as if she could suffocate in the dark bliss, simply from his mere proximity. What was he doing? Giving her a piece of his clothing to hang up? Was she to pleasure him with only her hands? She felt her fingers curling shut again, when a small, definite weight was dropped into her open, receiving palms. She shook the little sack, hearing the familiar jingle of coins―there must've been at least fifty, no, a hundred in there!

Rosette, confused, looked up at him. "But―I've done nothing yet―"

"And I don't want you to." His voice was harsh, making her flinch. "This is an awful profession, no place for young girls like you to be. If I see you here again―next time, I _will_ use you. And there will be no pleasure―it will be nothing but painful. If you don't want that, then leave, and never return."

"But―!" A cry rose in her throat. "How can I see you again? This is the only place I know where to find you!"

Now it was Dominique's turn to be surprised; dark eyes widened beneath the brim of his cap, his stern frown almost vanishing. "―I have relatives who own a villa, in the countryside. I visit there for a few weeks in the summer, and there's a guest house you can occupy."

"Thank you! Oh, thank you, _monsieur_! While I'm there, I can shine shoes, and repair clothes and curtains, and I can cook―it won't be much, but―"

"It's fine. I'm just glad―that you won't have to work here anymore." He tugged his cap lower.

"I―I―" Rosette, overcome with happiness, was unable to speak, and merely sobbed on his shoulder, savoring his warmth and support. "I'll do anything for you, _Monsieur_ Dominique! Anything to repay you!"

"Just Dominique." The soldier corrected, his gloved hand awkwardly wrapping around her shoulder. "―Rosette."

And they remained that way, until the hour was up, when he softly took his leave, and shortly afterwards, after collecting herself and wiping away the tears, she too would follow.

* * *

As Dominique mounted her house and left the city of Beauholm, the thunderous noise of hooves against stone was as trifling as a light rain, her heart suddenly full of vigor and brimming with a deep satisfaction she had only felt upon successfully being promoted to colonel―the strange, inexplicable joy warmed her even as the evening wore on, and she found the wind stinging at her cheeks and threatening to blow away her cap was a refreshing coolness, rather than a usual bothersome distraction. No time seemed to have passed at all as she finally rode into Mondediolle, where the platoon was still lounging around the supply shop, either stocking on equipment or waiting outside.

Unfortunately, at the sight of her subordinates' faces, her good mood immediately was dampened. She knew Lionel was the only one still inside, intimidating the poor shopkeeper, a mousey young girl with freckles and choppy, reddish hair that reached just past her shoulders. Being a bit of a greedy sort, she often changed the prices of goods as she saw fit―the only one exempt to that was Lionel, for whenever he was around, he swindled and tricked and wooed naïve Annie Gravelett into giving him anything he wanted, be it extra cases of bullets, whole strips of dried meat, or gunpowder by the bagful, sometimes at no cost at all. And it was the reverse case for Dominique―for whatever reason, she seemed to harbor a deep grudge against her, and often doubled, tripled the charge―resulting in Dominique avoiding the shop, which meant Lionel too seldom visited, and her intense dislike only continued to grow.

Dominique had no business interfering in the private love lives of her soldiers, but this was no relationship, only manipulation. And even Annie, as prone to lies as she was, as thieving as she could be, did not deserve to have her heart broken by a man as ruthless as Lionel.

She wrenched open the door, and immediately spotted the other soldier, predictably leaning over the wood counter, one arm casually resting upon it, but the way he had angled himself to loom over her, looking down on the tiny girl whose hand he was currently stroking, was far from accidental. Dominique could see that her apron was stained and rumpled, her cheeks flushed brighter than usual; Annie had probably been rushing around, scurrying up the shelves all day for anything it took to please the holder of her affections, and now, Lionel saw it fit to tease the waif with empty words and bold touches, never to fulfill his promises?

“That’s enough.” She said, firmly laying her hand on the doorframe. “Lionel, either buy something or leave; the rest of us are dispersing for the evening.”

Lionel grudgingly slitted his eyes at her over his shoulder, but did as he was bid and drew away from his charmed puppet, whose heartbroken gaze followed his steps, one hand half-extended, as if to catch his sleeve and pull him back. “I suggest that you start asking things of me a tad more nicely. The Queen is in a precarious position, and neither can yours last for long.” He said shortly under his breath as he passed by, without a word of good-bye to Annie.

The door banged shut, and the shopgirl turned her back as Dominique approached. “We’re closed, now. Please leave.” She said stiffly, busying herself with the register. But she paid her no mind, and continued advancing until Annie saw her shadow creeping up, and whipped herself around to face her, her back pressed against the shelves of alcohol and bandages, dried fruits and glass jars of medicine, medical kits for minor injuries, spare buttons and needles for uniform repair, and so on

"D-don't come near!" She cried once more, but her brave words were ruined by the shaking in her voice, the knocking of her knees. She gave a helpless little shriek as Dominique lowered her face so that they were eye level, and as if just realizing her terror, the soldier drew back a bit. She did not mean to come across as threatening, but she wanted Annie to see past her silly grudge and take her words with serious value.

"I'm not the one that's going to hurt you." She warned her, and the mouselett paled.

"What―what do you mean?" She demanded, and yet shrunk beneath her gaze, her bravery gone now that it was getting darker, and they were the only two in the shop.

"Your Lionel is not as kind as he may seem. His words are but air and sweetness, non-tangible and with little substance, meaningless."

Annie's frightened expression twisted into a scowl. “You lie! He told me, what an awful captain you are, how you slander the names of your own men―”

But her words died when Dominique threw herself forward, pinning Annie to the wall, ripping at the collar of her frilled, striped blouse. Two buttons came free, revealing the slight, cream-smooth curve of her torso. She screamed, tried to free her wrists, but they were held fast. “Look!” Dominique snapped, in frustration. “Look at the marks he leaves! He bruises, he bites, they are not the marks of a gentleman’s love-making!”

Annie, half-sobbing now, half-infuriated, freed one hand and swung her fist at her chest with all of her might, trying to cover the reddened patches of flesh. “None of your affair, none at all!” She snarled, in a pathetic show of false bravery, her eyes streaming. “Out! Out! Away with you!”

“ _Mademoiselle_ Gravelett―” Dominique indeed took a step back, but her sentence was interrupted by a glass-green bottle of gin shattering near her head, which she took as her cue to leave. The girl wouldn’t see sense, not now, perhaps later―but by then, she feared, it would be too, too late.

Surrendering pitiful, love-blind Annie to her cruel fate, she once again took up her horse, breaking into a full gallop until she had caught up to her lingering subordinate. "You're a cruel man." She said, with bitterness and disgust.

Lionel gave her an unreadable look from beneath his cap. "We're soldiers, isn't that our job?" He asked brutally, and sped out of her reach.

She didn't have an answer to that.

* * *

The female colonel was not the only one unfairly given the labels of cruel and monstrous. While Dominique was hated for her uniform and rank by many commoners, who believed her no better than a savage wolf, the people of Mondediolle had yet to fire a single shot, hiding behind the propaganda papers and vicious rumors, their faith crumbling, murmured half-formed plans of mutiny scattered to the wind at the sound of military boots approaching, cowards in the face of their swords, their cannons. However, this did not mean that their unease remained idle and harmless; far from it.

The following week, a thick pamphlet of illustrations penned by Geraldine Babineaux was distributed on the streets, and anyone could hold in their hands and feast their eyes upon the lewd ink sketches of the child-Queen and her colonel, portrayed as lovers. Neither of the two subjects had seen the papers as of yet; however, though it would’ve been a blow against her pride, it would’ve been wholly more fortunate if Anya had seen: if only she had been much more cautious in her actions, then perhaps she could’ve prevented her honest secrets from being revealed!

As it was, their initial shyness and reluctance having long vanished, the lonely royalty and her faithful servant’s affair had taken on a passion hungrier than any, needing to be satisfied at least once a night, and afterwards, instead of quickly slipping off to her husband, Anya would stay with Mana, taking shelter in the servants’ quarters, sometimes remaining in her bed until sunrise. Many times, the King had awoken to find his bed empty, only for Anya then to make her appearance, claiming she had needed water or a breath of fresh air, or had just wanted to wander about the outer gardens of the palace for a while in the serenity of dawn. Other times, she would spend the entire afternoon with her maid, indulging in the other’s body with newfound delight each time, only to break for mid-day lunch, and then it was back to bed together until morning. Rarely did the two play games of chess or thumb through the pages of a book; they were companions of flesh, and while there was a great deal of affection between the girls, they were precious companions only in a platonic way―at least, so it was the case for Mana.

If Her Majesty desired nothing but sex, she would unquestioningly give it, but she was also content with less visceral entertainment, simply sitting side by side, watching a duel or gamble take place. But Anya’s feelings were more ambiguous, whether was she simply lonely, or frustrated, or otherwise completely enraptured; often Mana felt tormented for not returning those same romantic inclinations, and so she compensated for it by furthering her talents of giving pleasure. The Queen, focused solely on her lover, was steadily growing more and more reckless, shunning audiences and forgetting to attend the balls she herself hosted to spend time hidden away with her nymph, barely making an effort to greet her husband or take their meals together, forgotten except as the constant dark cloud that hovered above her, a storm just waiting to burst, a perpetual guard that shunned her, and yet kept her confined to her gold-gilded cage. The two, even now as it was nearing her third year reigning as Queen, had never been intimate, and the rift between husband and wife was only growing deeper.

While the royal couple was more and more like bound strangers with each passing day, another frenzied war stirred beneath their knowledge, escaping their gazes as the stakes continued to increase, until the underground fight between servants almost rose to light, His and Her Highness' lives under threat without so much of a murmur reaching their ears. Mana’s occasional bouts of sickness had developed into a perpetual illness, with fevers and headaches being a usual occurrence. Her stamina had significantly decreased; she could hardly carry loads of laundry or rush up and down the stairs without needing a rest. Her hands tended to shake, her eyes, usually so bright, held a glassy look of unhealthiness. She barely ate anything she did not cook herself, and with Eva in possession of the fixings, she was wary to partake in anything, even self-made, consisting of ingredients she highly suspected were tainted. She assured Anya’s frequent concerns that she was simply tired, and though this explanation did not satisfy her, she did not ask any further and instead suggested lighter loads of work. But Mana insisted on her regular shifts, in addition to sexually servicing her. It was, she claimed, the only respite she got, and to take that away would be cruel. Her mind remained haunted with questions, and soon sleep evaded her as well, feeling a great wave of dread that any day, Anya too could fall victim to poison. But, without proof and mere instincts to go on, she would only be dismissed, claimed to be hallucinating as well as sickly.

Today, Her Majesty requested she set out traps for mice in the kitchen, for she had received complaints from Eva that small amounts of their food stock had been vanishing over a matter of weeks. Mana looked into the storage cupboard for the arsenic, where it was usually kept, out of the way and tucked on the highest shelf, where no food was kept, so as not to mistake it for flour or powered sugar. However, she did not have any intention to lay out the poison: instead, Mana delicately opened the bag, and dipped her finger in, just enough to barely powder her skin. Hesitantly, she took a tiny lick―and found it identical to the familiar, bitter aftertaste that accompanied all her meals! Proof! With a frightened shudder, she then remembered the Queen’s complaints of the slightly bitter taste of her food as of late―as she suspected, her nightmares were true! She quickly stowed the small bag into her pocket, trembling with the force of her realization as she burst into Anya’s bedroom, manners forgotten in her urgency. “My Queen! I―"

But she was not there. Instead, King Alfons was sitting on the bed, a crumpled paper clutched in one hand. His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them, his shirt partially unbuttoned, his vest cast off carelessly to the floor. His hair, usually so excellently curled and powdered, was disheveled, and his breathing was audible in heavy, measured breaths.

Mana stumbled, she took a step back and curtseyed. “Your Highness―”

Alfons’ eyes, initially downcast, now flickered over to her―there was fury in his gaze. It was then she noticed with horror that Anya was also there―wrapped in a sheet, the frail curve of her bare back to her, her shoulders tightly drawn together, occasionally trembling. Her intricate ringlets of dark-brown hair now curled lifelessly like serpents across the pillow, half-obscuring her pale shoulder, covering her face. Abandoned jewelry laid upon the carpet like confetti, and if she moved further into the room, she had no doubt that she would see her dress, petticoats, and corset strewn on the floorboards as well. Mana bit her lip, correcting herself. “Your Highnesses―”

"Come now, no need to be so formal." Alfons said. "Please, use your names freely; surely you don't call each other that when you're alone. What was it―'Anyali'?"

Anya flinched at the affectionate term being uttered by such tainted lips. "Please―she has nothing to do with it!" She reached out one pale, slender arm, but he slapped it away, as if she held a blade.

"The hell she hasn't!" Mana flinched, taking a step back; never, never had he raised his voice. He may have been a cold man, but was, at least, always civil with his words. "Fra told me, he saw you. _Both of you._ And to think―you've been depriving an heir to the throne, for a common girl! But no, nevermind―that's been taken care of. I should've suspected, when you said you were just going for a stroll to see the palace's outer gardens, or that you needed to slip out for a glass of water or a breath of fresh air―How could I have been so blind!"

" _Alfons!_ " Anya sat up, eyes blazing with tears―Mana shuddered when she saw her chest: bruised, with vivid red scratches. "She is not to face punishment for my choices! What is it you want, a war? Fine, then! If it's a war you want, you will have a war! But between _us!_ I'm not murdering my own people, simply to satisfy a grudge!"

"There won't be time for a war, with the way you've insulted me! The treaty can burn―you're my wife no longer! You'll make a fool of me, my country, no longer! You don't have drop of the blood worthy to be Queen of Mondediolle! Colonel Dominique Knight―"

And here, the uniformed soldier appeared behind Mana, gloved hands stiff at her sides. "Yes―you summoned me an hour ago, and so I have waited."

"Execute the maid." At this, Anya gave a sharp cry, and Mana felt the floor sway before her. "Take her away, and escort her to the servants' quarters. Lock her in until tomorrow evening. Take her to a desolate part of the city, when all the talk has died down, and place her against your pistol...I fear Mondediolle will never have a moment of peace again."

"Your Majesty." Dominique saluted, expression unreadable, eyes hidden. "Is that all your orders?"

"No. Take her, too." Alfons thrust a finger towards Anya, with the revulsion of swatting away a thousand insects.

Dominique's hand, laid on Mana's shoulder, dug into her skin with such force she had to bite her lip to refrain from crying out. "You mean, you want the Queen to be put to death as well?"

"Of course, she won't be forgiven for insulting me. Arrange a public execution, via guillotine. But bathe her first―I want her to, at least, look presentable upon spilling her blood on Mondediolle soil. Do whatever you like to her beforehand―though from the paper, you already have!" He threw the crumpled propaganda at her feet, but Dominique refused to pick it up.

"My Liege!" Pushing Mana away, the soldier got down on one knee, crossing her arm over her chest. "I am well aware her crimes are unforgivable, however, please consider the consequences―there will be war at her death! Once word gets out that you ordered for two executions, without long and proper judgement, the people could possibly think you insane, a blood-hungry madman! Instead of killing her, strip her of her powers as Queen, and allow her to keep the title only a mere decoration. I beg you, please spare her, my most merciful King!" Lowering herself to the floorboards, she reverently pressed her lips against Alfons' polished shoe, causing Anya to look away with sudden disgust and bile rising in her throat, at having to see the proud colonel lower herself to such shows of loyalty.

"Very well," He relinquished. "For tonight only, I'll agree to your conditions. But tomorrow, I may change my mind, and in that case―there will be no further negotiations! Be careful, Colonel―the only reason you are not losing your head as well, is because it would be shameful to execute my best soldier, in addition to my wife―I do not wish to filthy my history any further."

With a slow nod, Dominique led Mana away. Alfons, following after her, too rose from the bed, and locked the door after his exit. Anya stood on shaky legs, and pounded on the door, yanking at the handle, but it was futile.

"What a horrible kingdom! Oh, what a horrible thing, to be Queen! If I had but known―I never would have left my home, my sister!" She spat this hatefully at him, but she only heard retreating footsteps in return.

Stripped of both power and pride, without so much as a stitch on her back nor a coat of arms on her heart, the girl-royalty stood bravely, her thighs stained with rich blood as she wept, furious.

"But this is not the end! I told you once, Mana, that I would trade every treasure, drain every drop of my blood to be with you! I shall uphold my oath, until death! I will happily impale myself on the iron maiden, I will embrace with the guillotine and dance among a hail of bullets! I am Anyaliavich Belovarezhnaya, Crown Princess of Caspilene! This bird will break her cage!"

Freedom! She could almost taste it, red and sweet, just barely at her fingertips! It was there, tangible, ripe for the taking! For the first time, in those two long, miserable years, she would fight!


	7. Chapter Six

"Come now, Saliette de Sandwich! To imagine, your arm healing so quickly―barely a month, and you can already use silverware with such finesse! Your elegance far outstrips Victoria's own manners―it took her three times as long, simply to learn how to properly handle a glass." Lady Elizabeth had become quite satisfied with her step-daughter, who she was claiming to be a distant relative of Victoria's uncle. Today was Saliette's second week of being out and about after a surprisingly successful recovery, and she was learning all the proper etiquette and rules and restrictions of the Panettiete Manor, having grown accustomed to living on the streets for so long.

She slowly descended the stairs for brunch, her snow-pale hair finely brushed and strung with dark pearls, wearing a burgundy dress to match her eyes, and an enormous silk ribbon, like a flower, pinned in her hair. The cost of the outfit alone could've fed her for half a year while she was an urchin―and the food! Never before had she tasted such exquisite meals, never had she delighted in the thick cream-cakes, fresh sweet vegetables, and meat spiced to perfection! The very floor she walked upon glimmered from fragments of rare jewels, the statues were made of pure gold and diamonds! And to think, this was but a fraction of the Queens' wealth!

Saliette felt as if she was walking in a dream, one she dared not to tear her eyes away from. But, despite the glorious distractions of wealth and beauty, she could not entirely ward away her jealous thoughts of Victoria's cousins, Richard's children―her half-siblings. She knew that they were triplets: two girls, one boy, and they were all quite charming young people, though they lacked the amount of wealth Victoria's family had, but that was all. She was torn in two! How could she focus on the fantastic dream in front of her, when she hated them so! How she loathed them! They had received all of their father's love, all his gifts and affection―while she had nothing, abandoned and isolated, and later, wanted only for what her flesh could provide! But what could she do? But how could she, a blooming aristocrat, take revenge? She once suggested to Victoria, that they all get together for a formal lunch gathering of sorts, but it had immediately been shot down by Elizabeth, who greatly scorned Edith and her so-called beastly children, and their horrid lack of wealth or manners.

"Y-yes, I'm coming―mother." The words left an awful taste in her mouth, but Saliette kept her composed, prim smile until she reached the bottom of the staircase.

Victoria lingered behind her mother, dressed in a black lace gown, standing in the shadows: a dark blossom. She took Saliette's hand a little too roughly as she guided her to the dining hall. "Come now, come now! You'll enjoy our brunch today―it's cream and fruit scones, with blood sausage and imported red tea! Have you tried the honey and strawberry tarts? They're delicious!"

And so, they came into the dining room at last, a large and spacious area―but it lacked tables and chairs.

"...Are we eating outside?" Saliette asked. "There's no furniture here!"

Victoria giggled, waving her ostrich-feather fan. "Oh, my! I suppose you haven't met them yet, have you?"

"Met? Met who?" Her confusion must've shown on her face, for the other girl merely gestured towards the door.

"The furniture, of course!" As if on cue, two young girls appeared, wearing plain, identical dresses of lily-pale, and a simple apron over that, no frills, no fanciful designs of any sort. "They have names, obviously, but there's no need to call them that; they respond just fine to the name of furniture."

"Nonsense! They are girls, children!" Saliette snapped, feeling a sudden surge of venom towards her sister. "You can't possible _use_ them, like mere cloth to be disposed of―come now, what are your names, your honest ones?"

Though she had asked kindly, the servants narrowed their eyes, lowering their heads as if dogs expecting the lash of a whip. One brave girl at last spoke up, daring to raise her eyes and meet Saliette's gaze.

"'M Henri Page, _mademoiselle_." Henri was a twig-like girl, that looked like she would snap in two with the lightest of ill winds, her feet pigeon-toed, and face round like a child's. Huge, expressive eyes were hidden beneath thick, hazel curls, which she allowed to freely brush past her shoulders, rather than tie it back.

Following her companion's example, the other girl now spoke up, though her tone was significantly stiffer than Henri's atrocious voice. "I am Robin Matthews, _madame_." Robin had an air of long-suffering patience and maturity, spreading her skirt with tired fingers, her wavy, wine-red hair cut almost boyishly short, curling at her ears.

Victoria glared at the two, snapping her fingers quickly. "Saliette, Saliette! There's no need for you to feel sympathy; they are _paid_ , after all. You must have been very kind to your servants at the de Sandwich Mansion, however, here you'll find it best if you don't associate yourself with such low class!" With that, she turned away and addressed her attendant. "Furniture, it's time for brunch, and I'm tired of standing."

"Yes, _mademoiselle_." And much to Saliette's shock, Henri dutifully got on all fours, and Victoria happily hitched up her skirts and sat on her back.

"Stop it! Can't you see, you'll snap her back that way!" Her face colored deep pink with fury, her pale hands curling into claws she barely managed to restrain. Nobles! Aristocrats! They always acted so kind and civil on the surface, but beneath the public watch they were disgusting animals, no better than slave-holders! If not for her cunning lie, that she herself would've been left to die!

Victoria smiled, and took a proffered tea cup, as if nothing was wrong. "See sense, my dear sister. Being alone for so long must've addled your head, poor thing! This is the way of Panettiete Manor, and you have to act accordingly. Don't make a fuss and sit, try some tart."

Saliette's shoulders shook, and she saw Robin had already gotten on her hands and knees to serve as her chair. She wanted to grab her, to scream at her to stand up, to fight! But if she did, she would expose herself as a commoner, and promptly be turned out―and so, she grudgingly seated herself onto the poor girl's back, praying she wasn't too heavy.

She found the tart to be too sour to her taste, and the texture much too soft, but the sausage, as promised, was warm and filling; Saliette couldn't remember the last time she enjoyed herself so much. As the hour went on, and she nibbled from time to time on her biscuits spread with blackberry jam and fresh butter, she forgot altogether that she was sitting on a human, an unfortunate girl, just like her, and paid no mind as she accidentally stepped on her fingers from time to time, or occasionally hit her bowed head with her elbow between bouts of ecstatic conversation.

But as brunch was adjourned and Victoria offered to take her out into the garden, Saliette rose from her seat and saw Robin hissing under her breath as she straightened out her spine, and massaged her sore wrists and knees―to her horror, she had forgotten who she was, within such mindless delight! Endless pleasure had blinded her, and hid her own humble beginnings! She was no better than a true woman of blue blood! How dangerous, the seduction of glamour and riches, the selfishness of ignorance―if only she had remembered that, then perhaps Saliette von Vane would not have followed the path of her mother, scorning another to remain in her sea of fantasy!

* * *

"―That one over there is Marciella Taffe, but don't let her kind words and sweet looks fool you―her other face is that of a devil, a monster! And next to her is Luttle Marie Butler; yes, her, the one with all those ghastly scars―supposedly she's had a weak constitution since birth, so she's had countless surgeries performed. And behind her is―why, that's Belle de Poisson! She's _Monsieur_ Luce's current favorite, you know―quite the haughty brat! And, over there is Schrodinger―" Victoria happily pointed out each of their classmates to her ignorant sister, but the girls' cheerful twittering was cut short when the wooden door opened, and the headmaster entered.

The man who came in did not match Saliette's internal picture of him at all―she had heard he was disgusting, and cruel, but this man looked nothing but the kindest soul in the world! Black hair was neatly brushed away from his handsome face, his features not too strong, his tall frame neither wiry nor intimidatingly bulky, a perfect model of masculinity indeed! He wore a clean, dark suit, with a brilliant red flower tucked into his lapel, and possessed the air of a refined, well-mannered gentleman, with nothing but gentleness in his gaze! Could Victoria had been lying, or simply jealous of Belle? She did notice, however, the brightly-wrapped sweets stuffed into one pocket, as if barely trying to hide it―but surely, the presence of mere candy confirmed nothing!

"For today, why don't we have our new student, _Mademoiselle_ Saliette Panettiete, read from our book?" Even his voice was smooth as silk, and as warm as fresh spring!

"Yes, _monsieur_." The selected passage was a long and arduous one; she struggled to read even the simplest of words, and often stumbled over the pronunciation.

Luce frowned at her, cutting her off after but a few minutes, passing the helm to her sister. "I am most disappointed in you―perhaps I can offer you some private tutoring, after class?"

She began to shake her head, but a quick kick to the knee from Victoria stopped her. "Y-yes, _Monsieur_ Luce." She said meekly.

As class went on and was eventually dismissed, Saliette wasn't asked again to read, and she took this opportunity to make her presence as scarce as possible, to avoid further humiliation. Eventually, the room emptied, and the two girls were left alone, their teacher having stepped out for a moment.

"Oh, Victoria! Don't leave me alone! Please, _Madame_ Elizabeth will be so upset if she hears I needed help on my first day!" She begged her, clawing at her dress, kissing her hand, but Victoria merely smiled sympathetically and dried her tears with a handkerchief, saying that there was nothing she could do, and bid her _dear sister_ farewell, for she had to hurry home, mother was expecting her for dinner.

The schoolroom door opened, and shut, and never before had Saliette realized how small the room was: there were no windows, and the twenty or some desks were all crowded towards the back, the teacher's desk placed at the front, and a simple chalkboard behind that. Her initial good impressions were beginning to fade now, as realization sunk in: locked in, alone in this solitary, thick-walled room, with an older man.

And she could vividly remember the last time she had been alone with a man.

Luce smiled disalarmingly at her, gesturing her to come closer. With shaking, grudging steps, Saliette managed to keep her knees from buckling as she did as she was bid, remaining standing. "Now, my dear girl, here are the conditions of my study session: answer correctly and stay quiet, and you'll get a sweet. However, answer wrong, or misbehave, and you'll receive a lashing. Understood?"

Even now, in such an enclosed situation, his voice was like velvet, and his student could only nod mutely, daring not to meet his eyes and see lust contained within. Her mouth had gone dry at the mention of a whip, and she cringed, trying to regain her voice. But it was no use! As she was given a thick book to wrestle with, Saliette could no more differentiate an _a_ from an _o,_ or a _b_ from a _d!_ It was thanks to _Madame_ Elizabeth that she could read at all, giving her private lessons on the alphabet before her enrollment, but still, she was nowhere near the level of other girls her age!

She trembled, she slurred her letters and dropped her book onto her feet several times, and had to keep from crying out with mounting terror as Luce eventually sighed and stood, ushering her forward. "You must be tired, here, take a seat before you try once again."

Without waiting for a response, he took her by the frail shoulders and drew her into his lap, as if she was a pet of his he desired to punish or fondly preen every now and then. Saliette now clutched at the pages of the text like some salvation―and screamed when she felt the first solemn stroke along her leg.

"What's this? Did you cut yourself on the paper? Come now, have another go, once more." Shaking all over, she ground her teeth and picked up the book that slid from her lap, desperately trying to focus on the printed rows of letters, and failing when another tiny cry escaped, as this time his hand had found the frilled petticoat beneath her dark skirt.

" _Monsieur_ , I think I would be able to read better at my desk," She said, praying he would accept, but she only felt his palm cupping the soft flesh of her thigh. She shrieked, manners forgotten entirely as she twisted away, smacking his face with her little curled fist in the fray of her panicked struggles.

Before she could even right herself, Saliette was roughly pushed off his lap onto the splintery floorboards, her weakened arm receiving the brunt of the blow. Winded by the agony, she merely shuddered and trembled, unable to move until Luce's hand twisted at her pale curls, yanking her upwards so her sobbing face was visible.

What a change, what a transformation! Her previous kind, well-mannered gentleman had become a monstrous brute, a vicious child-lusting beast! His patient gaze now was cruel with impatience, his tone rising with frustration like flames! Victoria had been right, absolutely right! "Five lashes for failing to grasp the material. Another five lashes for being disobedient. And ten lashes for striking me. Hands on the desk, _Mademoiselle_ Panettiete. Little girls who behave get a treat."

"No!" She threw the book as hard as she could, edging towards the door, his hands grappled towards her, but she was quicker! Out, out, free in the cooling evening of a turning spring! Saliette didn't care that she bruised her knee tripping against the cobblestone, or that she was making a fuss, ripping the fine embroidery of her skirt―how she despised this realm of gentlemen and ladies! She didn't care anymore, she could be turned back out onto the streets, she could starve―it had to be better than playing their horrid games, obeying their awful rules! She didn't need friends or sisters, she didn't need wealth or presents, she didn't need love―didn't need―anything―

Why! Why, was this world so awful, so hideous! Torn between worlds, between her desperate desire for attention, and her love of personal freedom, Saliette was trapped! She stopped at a streetlamp, her chest heaving for breath, her sides aching, eyes glassy with tears. To her horror, she heard slow, untroubled footsteps coming after her. A heavy hand laid on her shoulder. A syrupy, sensual voice murmured into her ear.

"Come now, Saliette―it wouldn't have hurt that badly. It's all right, it's all right, just a few more chapters and you can go home, you'll even get to pick a candy of choice for all your hard work. Don't worry, let's keep your outburst our little secret from _Madame_ Elizabeth, hm?"

Shuddering once, her scarlet eyes filled with blooming hate, she nodded.

* * *

The life of an aristocrat wasn't the only cruel existence: for while Victoria Panettiete and Saliette von Vane equally had begun to harbor festering feelings of jealousy and hatred within their tender, brittle hearts, they had forgotten entirely about the people they trampled daily, merely going about their lives: the dressmakers that starved when Victoria went through a boyish phase, insisting on wearing men's clothing, the sweet shops whose business depended entirely on a little girl's whim for candy, and most of all, the furniture whom they used as mere objects, forgetting they possessed their own will and thoughts behind restrained lips.

_We are like walls; we house them, protect them, and ultimately end forgotten and unwanted! They abuse and mark us with their personal brands of frustration and loathing, never expecting us to topple down on them! If we fall, then now is the time to crush them beneath us on our descent!_

Robin Matthews was in a particularly vicious mood that day, only made fouler by the appearance of that new pale witch, the de Sandwich brat. Acting as if a saint, refusing to sit and yet soon after, bowing beneath expectations of 'manners'; she was no revolutionary of theirs! If she had been in the same place, she would've flung scalding tea into Victoria's face! It was not out of loyalty or fondness she served the Panettiete family, but purely out of need for bread, and the bizarre, sisterly desire, forged over the past years, to protect Henri, who would similarly be starving without work.

Henri must've seen shadows of her troubled mood on her face, by the subtle narrowing of her eyes and the quick, irritated glances she flickered to the ground, for the girl avoided striking up a conversation with her, as she sometimes did on occasion, and worked in silence: dusting off the young mistress' clothes, laying each dress out with tender caution, and then neatly folding them back into the wooden wardrobe. In her hands now was a lovely charcoal-dark dress with a scarlet-dyed fur trim, a particularly fancy piece of attire that Victoria had only worn once, on her first day of school. From then on, she had thrown it into the closet and refused to touch it since, though the silent, watchful furniture-girls suspected the vivid bruise on her leg might've had something to do with it. Henri admired the outfit greatly, relishing the feel of smooth cotton within her fingers, so much softer than her own stiff one-piece. However, she merely put it away as simply as hiding the glimpses of a green-eyed monster within.

"Try it on, why don't you." The words slipped from her before she knew it, crushing the strained, carefully-conceived silence between then.

The younger girl looked up, moss-green eyes wide with surprise. "No, Robin, I can't. It's not mine ter wear, that'd be rude, an' besides, what if I got caught?"

"Suppose you didn't." Robin's voice was rising with indignance and bubbling anger. "Suppose you looked beautiful in it, better than her, a thousand times better?"

Henri blushed deeply, her small hands wrinkling the ruffles on her apron, and then slowly shaking her head. "What'll 'appen if I get caught, then? No food fer a week, beatings wiv da whip? And I'd butcher's 'ook awful in it, anyway."

"Poppycock. Come now, can't you allow yourself even one moment of freedom?" She was steadily advancing on her without intending to, her feet moving without direction; she saw her move away just a fraction, swaying slightly, as if torn between being scared or not. "Or do you really think of yourself as just furniture? Do you think you're just a rack for clothes to hang off of?"

Henri quickly shook her head so fast her vision blurred, "No, that ain't what I meant, Robin! I'm sorry fer upse'in' you―" She flinched when the taller, stronger girl's hands grabbed her shoulders, perhaps rougher than intended.

"We have minds, we have voices, and we have our own damned rights! Bend, but don't be broken beneath their rule!" Scared, unsure Henri gave a little yelp when Robin moved forward still, driving her back into the wall, her hands still soapy and damp from washing the floorboards. "You have a name, and hopes, and desires and dreams, just like any filthy, wealthy aristocrat! Don't let yourself be trampled by them, Henri! What are you going to do if the Master comes back, or if that Luce fellow ever visits here?"

The maid struggled in her grip, her breath caught in her throat when Robin, a mentor-like figure to her, brushed her overly long bangs away from her face, to reveal frightened eyes and flushed cheeks. "If it's a man, I won't 'ave nuffink ter worry about any ways, he won't want me."

"Pretend he did. Pretend he does. Will you fight, or will you fall? Don't you have any self-respect?" She demanded.

"Yor not a man, I don't know 'ow I'd act! Yor just in a bad mood today, don't take it out on me!" She tried to slip away, but her grip remained tight, her gaze serious and flat.

"So, you're telling me, that if I did _this_ ―" Robin's hand drifted towards her chest, already having undone the top button within moments when Henri could take no more and shoved her away, causing her to lose her footing, and slip on a murky puddle of water, left from the washing bucket they had brought in. With a thunderous crash and a sharp cry, she had collided with the wall, and she slumped down against it, her body heaving for breath.

"Yor scarin' me, Robin!" Henri cried, her eyes brimming with tears. "Yor just in a bad mood today, right, don't take it out on me!"

But on the contrary, the girl wore a thin, weary, but satisfied smile. Attempting to get to her feet and almost immediately crumpling, she remained on the floor. "I never knew, what strength. I suppose you can defend yourself after all, I don't have much to worry about then."

"You, worry! That's a laugh, yer were the one 'oo worried me! Touchin' me, all of the chuffin' sudden―anyhow, don't just si' there, you shoulds get in'er bed. I didn't mean ter shove you that 'ard, I just didn't wan' your bloomin' hand inside my shirt."

"No, you were right. I'm just not a very good mood today." But she said nothing more after that, allowing Henri to wrap an arm around her waist, half-carrying, half-dragging her to the furnitures' quarters.

However, before they could complete their awkward shuffling, a familiar, slightly misshapen head appeared over the window ledge, cheerful, though vaguely dazed brown eyes eagerly looking in through the lace curtains. Henri jumped, but Robin merely gave a little groan, opening the shutters.

"What do you want, Pumpkin-head? Trying to hide from shop owners again?"

The boy frowned with exaggerated tragedy as he tried to hoist himself inside, his wild tangle of blonde hair partially stained with dried blood, and his face sporting several fading discolorations. "Cummon, Robin! You know I only take their fruit for my own stomach, yours, and yer fine friend here!"

"Meaning, you force your spoils onto us to keep hidden for you."

"Nah, no! I'm just an urchin is all, with naught a roof over my head, while you've got beds and sheets and regular table scraps 'n everything! No, no, don't trouble yourself by sparin' a drop of pity for poor Pumpkin-headed Phillip―are you ever going to call me by my first name? It's a gent's one!" He grinned, revealing a piano of missing teeth, casually throwing his tattered jacket, filthier than their soiled cleaning rag, onto the freshly-polished floor.

" _I_ call you by yer name, Ivan." Henri piped up, beginning to fetch their friend's jacket but quailing beneath Robin's disapproving glance.

"And that I thank you kindly fer, Henri." He gave a little bow, as if he had been met with thunderous applause, lowering the sack slung over one shoulder to the floor. "Cummere, look at my new snatch-prize: today I've got a whole basket of apples! They're sweet and crisp; fresh ones, too!"

"Are they red?" Robin's voice betrayed her curiosity.

He shook his head, offering one out to her. "'M 'fraid not, these are green, see."

Henri eagerly took one, and let out a squeal of girlish glee at her first taste. "Robin! You've got ta try one, they're delicious!"

The older girl shook her head. "We should get back to work, we've still got a lot left to do―what if _Madame_ Elizabeth comes in and sees us snacking?"

But she was interrupted when a wedge was shoved under her nose, Ivan winking mischievously.

Reluctantly, she took a bite, and after thoughtfully savoring it, she gave him a small smile. "Thank you, really―but when you steal food, you ought to eat it all directly after. You really shouldn't come here and bring it along, because then it looks like you've stolen from the kitchen. And I promise you, Lady Panettiete is much harsher when it comes to punishment than any shopkeeper."

The boy blushed a deep scarlet, refusing to meet her eyes and instead choosing to rummage around in his sack a bit more. "Lock the door then, come on, let's have ourselves a feast, eh? I've got some cheese in here too, I think, a bit blue but otherwise edible, and some dry bread, but it should go down fine with water."

Henri gave a little cheer, doing as she was bid. "Genuine cheese, did you hear that, Robin? Is that what they make cheesecake from?"

But Robin merely afforded her a sour glance, closing the sack and handing it back to their companion thief. "Take it now, I couldn't stand it if we were to get caught―and _Mademoiselle_ Victoria is due home any minute, she'll want some hot tea."

Ivan chuckled, shaking his head. "I'd think not! Don't you know, she'd be a bit preoccupied now, exchanging the gossip-talk with other young girls of her age! So much happening, such scandal, such shame―no, it could be hours before they've exhausted their hunger for delightfully dreadful news."

Robin gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean, scandal? What have the rags been saying now?"

His jovial smile faded, as true realization set in. "You mean you haven't _heard?_ The Queen's servant, that foreign India girl! It's bein' said she was caught trying to poison the Queen and King, and she's gettin' put to death next week!"

"Are you mad?" This time, it was Henri who spoke, and both pairs of wide eyes shot to her. "Death? They wouldn'―surely, she didn'―musta just been a mistake―"

Ivan shook his head. "No joke, you think I'd joke about something so grim? Anyway, it'll happen in less than seven days. Up against the rifle line, I heard. Nasty way to go, even for a traitor―"

"Proof." Henri demanded. "Ya've got no proof. A young gel like that, committing murder―bloodsbotch! She loved the Queen, always was faithful to the King―"

Ivan looked uncomfortable, once again turning to his bag. "Well, you know―she liked her a bit _too_ much, methinks. The Queen was in _c-carnal embracings_ and all tha' with that colonel, who's to say she and the maid didn't―?"

Robin laid a soft hand on Henri's shoulder, concerned at seeing the girl so suddenly and deeply disturbed by the news. "Henri? Whatever is the matter? You don't know this girl personally, she's scored no grudge against you to hold―"

"But! For a servant, their loyal furniture, to be tossed aside―after all that work, to be broken and abandoned―" It was not just anger at the injustice of such a swift death sentence, but also a deep fear, that she herself would be discarded in such a way, that spurred Henri's highly unusual and rare temper.

"Here, have a sandwich. Calms the nerves, since I'm fresh out of tonic." Ivan handed her a bit of the unappetizing, but edible spread of his own creation, but Henri had lost her appetite, shaking her head.

"How can you dine in such pleasant spirits, when our country's rulers are tearing at each other's throats, our very lives being thrown into turmoil? All aristocrats and nobles will become paranoid now, they won't trust anyone than themselves, and we'll be blamed for a single malicious character! Our job and the little pocket money we've earned will vanish, and if we're lucky, that will be all! We could be slaughtered, face execution ourselves: a simple switching of ingredients, sweet with sour, could be framed as attempted murder; an accidental nail, left untended to, could be pictured as a bloodied dagger! We won't be simply furniture, but _harmful_ ―they will rid themselves of us, rather than fear us! Separate, we are but mild stings, but if together―they will try dwindle our numbers, most definitely, try to keep us in line: not just a mere lashing, but a noose! Not just a whipping, but a guillotine!" Robin's face was flushed, her chalk-pale hands trembling in fists.

"What 're you suggestin'?" Henri's voice was faint, her eyes hollow and dark and she watched the frightful transformation in her friend. "Revolution? We should slit th' _madame_ and _mademoiselles_ ' throats in their sleep, is tha' it? Don't be barbaric!"

"I never said anything about killing them. I never even said we would be harming them! But if they are to use us like carpet, then they should know that while we are always underfoot, we are not to be forgotten: and we are _very_ intimate with them. We know the locks and doors inside and out."

"You want ta terrify them!" Henri cried, shuddering at the suggestion.

"They've already spent their lives terrifying _us!_ And they _enjoy_ it! We are pets, animals to them: played with for a brief period, but then blamed if something goes wrong! I won't stand for it, not while a girl, maybe innocent, maybe not, does not have even the right to speak!" Robin persisted, raising her voice to match her incensed speech.

"She should have tha' right―but we don' need to start a bloodbath to do it!"

"Then how? Do you just want to politely ask the King to stop?" Robin demanded. "You think she's innocent, yet you won't do a thing to save her!"

"There's nuffink I _can_ do!" Henri burst, her eyes swollen with tears.

"Ivan―" Robin's voice was low, ragged. "Where's the execution to take place?"

He seemed relieved at finally having something to contribute to the argument, that wouldn't spark up another screaming match. "B-Beauholm. Awful city, that. I can barely catch a rat, even on a good day, I'd get it stolen right out of my hands―"

"Who's the one behind the gun? Who's going to shoot her?"

He scratched his head, pondering. "The colonel, I said―can't remember his name, Domino or somethin'―"

"And it'll be in exactly one week's time from now."

"H-hey, Robin, weren't you the one just now who was tellin' me not to be reckless? What's going on in yor head?"

But she ignored him, wiping her juice-stained hands off on her apron. "Henri, tomorrow, I'll need you to do absolutely nothing. Make sure the house is filthy. Pumpkin-head," This time, the nickname was infused with a sort of fondness. "There's some opera playing in a few weeks' time, can you get three tickets for me?"

He nodded, absolutely befuddled. "I can, but―what exactly are you plannin'―"

She smiled widely, snatching a paring knife from the bag. "The Panettiete family haven't been on an outing together for such a very long time. If they were to discover tickets to a specific opera they happened to enjoy, that just so supposed to play on the night of the execution, when their furniture had been bid to stay home and clean up the awful state their Manor is in, it would be most interesting." She stabbed an apple in triumph, splitting it clean through the middle, narrowly avoiding her own fingers.

Henri stood up, resolutely shaking, but standing firm. "'M coming too. I can' stay home an' clean while you risk yor neck!"

Robin paused, but seemed to relinquish and clasped the girl's hand tightly within her own. "This is more than just saving her. This is proving to them what mere furniture can do, if abused to a point―there are nails in our cushions, and binding conditions in exchange for our services."

"Yes, this is all very touching and moving, young _Mademoiselle_ Revolutionaries, however―what if she's really guilty? You'll have helped a criminal get away with near-murder of the Queen!"

Robin and Henri exchanged momentarily looks, before the former explained, with the air of speaking to a child, "Then she goes free anyway. The Queen is the wealthiest and most wasteful of them all!"

Ivan, satisfied with this, burst into a sunny grin, and extended his hand towards Robin. The maid shook hands with him, once, and the plan was set in motion.

Henri, however, stayed quiet and averted her eyes all throughout their celebratory feast, anxiety creeping through her bones, suddenly feeling as if she was carrying the troubles and hopes of every down-trodden commoner in Mondediolle, and yet, also bearing the burden of horrific guilt towards the child-royalty, for while she may have been rumored to be as cruel and savage as the people of her homeland, infamous for her lascivious activities with those outside marriage, and despised for the way she overlaid taxes and deprived the poor of food and clothing, she too was just a young girl, perhaps feeling betrayed and frightened, just as confused and lost about the whole foggy circumstances as she.


	8. Chapter Seven

Over the past months, Alda found life with Leonora was much like a distorted, grotesque version of the ordinary, playing-house fantasy she had dreamed of as a little girl, taking on the role of a teacher and mother where her parents were not, attempting to teach the animalistic child how to speak, how to sit with her legs closed, how to use silverware in her spare time, whenever her new sister was not being whisked off to private tutors for educational lessons, doctors—given she often got bruised, crawling on all fours—or fancy parties, where Thomas and Rebecca paraded the girl around as if a new trophy or piece of exquisite art. But Leonora loathed crowds most of all, so she could only be seen for a few short moments by the guests before she was hastily locked away in her room, lest she try to snap at any potential suitors.

Now that she was washed, and once she was properly taught not to claw at her dresses in attempt to go around freely nude, Leonora's natural beauty was able to shine through: she actually had a bit of a masculine bent, with slightly thick eyebrows, the knobby fingers of a boy's, and a handsome face, though not too strong so as to overshadow her finer features, such as her curling mouth and snip of a nose. Her hair remained a long and luxurious gold, for it would've been a shame to chop off those enviously long waves, which Alda spent hours at a time brushing until it was velvet-soft. Her deeply wary, summer-blue eyes were always darting about, never staying in any place for more than a minute, even around Alda, whose presence she seemed to accept as harmless―it was around her she behaved best around, though even that was a far cry from any proper, appropriate behavior for young girls. As for Alda's own feelings, once her initial revulsion faded, she had developed a reluctant affection towards the girl, a miserable attempt at loving Leonora just as much as Anya, but she even when she acted as kindly she could, she found herself yearning for her blood-tied sister even more.

But even more unsettling was that her last letter, her most desperate attempt yet, had gone unanswered. But what could she do? She couldn't very well march into the next country, and demand an answer, not with Leonora needing constant care, and not without angering her parents. She had been unable to sleep fitfully for weeks now, dreadful thoughts plaguing her, a thick darkness invading her mind, fears such as: Anya being happier without her, Anya having forgotten her, Anya hating her. How she longed for her, for just the smallest wafts of her familiar perfume, desperately wishing to stroke her soft hair once again!

But she could confide in no one, not even her weekly luncheon mates, the four daughters of her parents' friends, all very esteemed men with high positions. Bernadette-Mimi Cloquent was a rather nasty piece of work: she highly enjoyed kicking stray cats and mocking the servants, but quickly burst into crocodile tears if confronted in any way, and took much pleasure in pointing out Alda's many flaws. Odile Briand was by far one of the nicer girls, but she was a hopeless romantic and never satisfied with her current situation, always dreaming of luxury beyond her already sizable riches. She also was rather gullible, and happily followed anything Bernadette said. Francine-Josette Lessard was a haughty young lady with an ear for gossip and an eye for fashion, and always insisted on being a part of conversation, never being able to tell when her company wasn't wanted. Bernadette greatly disliked her, but Odile revered her recommendations on dress as if they were divine instructions, and sure enough, she would often show up in an exact copy of Francine's outfit, down to the stitching, at their next meeting. The final attendee was Louise-Constance Capelle: stubborn and flirty, she loathed the thought of an arranged marriage, and frequently told her gossip-friends of her hopes to run away, and perhaps elope with the stable boy, before the time came. She and Francine got along poorly, but Bernadette had taken an odd liking towards her, and together, they often took to the shadier districts.

No, none of the girls Alda could trust with such a delicate topic of emotional attachment. She could only watch the skies in hope, desperate, waning hope, that her letters would be answered, but steadily, she had comes to terms that it was futile, though she would never admit it to herself.

Anyali, it seemed, had indeed no more use for her beloved older sister, and while that tore her heart to shreds, over the weeks, Alda's despair gave way to a quiet kind of determination, and dark thoughts that frightened even herself, wonderings like: if Anya would not come to visit her, then why not she go to her? Surely, that was the only option. And while she could not sneak out without being punished, not that she had any idea where the exact whereabouts of her long-separated sibling was, Alda had steadily convinced herself that she would do anything to reunite with her sister, and she could never let her go. She was aware it was cruel of her, to rip her sister away from her happiness of being Queen, but sheer loneliness had driven her to madness and desperation; she simply had to possess her sister once more! Or else, Alda felt she would no longer be able to stand such an awful life, overshadowed first by her younger sibling, and now a girl who was practically animal, unwanted and humiliated. But this was not vengeance, surely not, never! She did not have any malice in her intentions, but she was not above spilling blood and inciting scandal, even until Europe devoured itself, in order to once again be embraced, accepted, loved.

Alda had become accustomed to going without slumber, as she, the delicate flower, was torn between a quiet life of being a breathing corpse, or risking death and terror just to have a short life of bliss. Her appetite had waned as well, and she was leaving her room in increasingly less increments, but it wasn't until much later was she finally able to cut her ties with her country.

Isolation had snapped her reason and morality in two, but even with this blood-scarred decision made, Alda could not bring herself to lift a pistol or sword against her kind, or Mondediolle's kind. No, this would have to begin as a subtle affair, even if she had to sell her soul and soil her flesh, she would do it! Anything, anything for her cherished Anya, simply to lay eyes on her once again!

This was what led Alda to quietly excuse herself from the dinner table early one evening, along with being bid by Lady Rebecca to fetch the decorations and tastefully hang them―heavy garlands, hand-painted ornaments of colored glass, false snow made of delicate spun sugar, and such―for summer was long past its end and autumn begun to set in, and with that, they had their usual elaborate holiday ball, a fashionably taboo celebration. They would have to begin preparations early this year, for Leonora would have to be in best condition, being displayed at the crowning jewel―for while it was usually a simple party with no motive other than merry-making and a gathering for the juiciest gossip, this year had the hidden purpose of finding a husband for their youngest daughter: it had already been many days since she first arrived at the Belovarezhnaya Mansion, and not a single proposal! It was absolutely shameful.

However, for the first time, she had no intentions of doing what she was bid. Instead, Alda called upon her maid, and simply requested that she lay out the decorations herself, telling her she was going out to visit a friend. No specifics were asked for, and for that she was grateful; she disposed of her fanciful gown with ruffled collar and cuffs, and instead slipped on a sensible, patternless dress of sea-dark puce that her mother had always disapproved of, calling it gloomy and unattractively drawing attention to her fidgeting legs and trembling ankles.

She was able to refuse the persistent offer for a carriage by the servant boy, for she didn't want her parents to notice the missing coach, and thus connect it to her disappearance. Instead, she traveled modestly by foot, reaching the Cloquent Manor just short of four dozen minutes later. Naturally, vicious Bernadette was not her ideal choice in begging her favor from, but out of all the girls', her father was the wealthiest, in addition to holding the most formidable position in politics...and Bernadette, her greed second only to Odile's, was most likely to accept a bribe. And what a bribe Alda had to give, what a gift she would receive, if she was complicit!

Truthfully, there was no telling that Bernadette was in definite persuasion of her own fairer sex, however, her close companionship with Louise was evidence enough in Alda's eyes, enough to assure herself that the coveted virginity of a fine maiden, if not for the high price it would fetch, then would at least be satisfactory to claim for her own in a pleasurable sense of the flesh. The agony of feminine lust was a terrible thing after all, almost a curse, and often spreading apart her own petals would grow tiresome after enough repeated sequences, would it not?

Fitting the gloomy temperament of the changing seasons, or perhaps just the weatherings in her heart, it had begun to rain; though it was at first a mere few droplets on her walk over, now the gray water was splattering across the cobblestone with such ferocity, it soaked her clothes right through and chilled her to the bone. Standing before the front doors, she eyed the heavy iron hinges that supported such colossal pieces if polished, dark wood, intricately carved, and momentarily fretted that if they had rusted or loosened, they could easily crush her. Steadying her shoulders, she stiffly knocked once, twice, each nervous bat of her fist echoing and seemingly louder with each recollection. Though normally in such stealthy, 'romantically secret' matters, as Odile would say, it would've been much more fitting it climb through her window, but being of frail body and of little balance, Alda refused to chance climbing up the ancient, thick patches of ivy that grew alongside the manor in such storming.

" _Madame_ Belovarezhnaya! Such a surprise, such a pleasure, though at such a late hour...Do, do come in―the mistress is being prepared for bed, she will be with you shortly..." A bright-eyed maid ushered her in, no doubt flustered by her sudden, sodden appearance.

Another servant, this time wise enough to reign in her curious gaze, gently dried her off with a woolen towel and gave her a change of clothes: a simple, flour-pale sleeping gown with a gold rose, the Cloquent family seal, embroidered on her right breast. She sat comfortably enough by the fireplace, patting the dampness out of her dark sheet of hair, occasionally sipping some hot broth, thick with paprika and other such spices.

Soon after, she was ushered up to Bernadette's personal chambers. The creaking door was closed behind her, the butler slipping out of sight, leaving her standing in the girl's clothing upon the lush carpet, her pale hands twisting together. Her acquaintance sat on her bed, wearing naught but a thin robe of rich peacock-green. As awful and terrifying as the other girl could be, despite that lovely face occasionally haunting her nightmares, Alda could still be awestruck by her vicious beauty, a specter of ill omen in short, dusky-golden curls and porcelain-smooth skin, hiding fangs and poison to be bared at any moment, if one dared to cross that thread-thin line between amused and irritated.

"Well?" Words fell sparingly from her lips as if they were precious diamonds, and as if every breath she took while addressing her was a breath she could never claim again. Regal, horrid, hateful girl. "You're wearing my bathing robe. Because, you see, after I'm finished soaking in my bath, I like to dress in something comfortable. And you stand before me, with my family's seal at your heart."

Alda was suddenly moving, already reaching up to her collar to undo the buttons before she stopped her hands mid-movement, remaining posed, stiff and awkward by her throat before Bernadette's gaze, simultaneously repulsed and morbidly greedy, broke the spell. "Pardon my rudeness, but I have nothing else to wear."

The heiress made a noise of disgust, turning her face away. "Sit, then. It won't do to dirty it further."

Alda's mouth twisted into a faint frown, her brow furrowing, but then she saw on Bernadette's hand that her nails had been cut sharply, reminding her of claws. When no seats were offered, she had no choice but to sit at the edge of her mattress, her position strained, apologetic.

"I've come here this evening to request―a favor." Her voice faltered, but when the other girl made no move to interrupt, she continued. "I'd like to arrange a private meeting with your father, the Prime Minister of Caspilene, so I may―"

"Why not beg this entreaty from my mother?" Bernadette said coldly, shifting away to further distance herself. "Surely his wife would have more business with him than his daughter."

" _Because_ ," Alda insisted firmly, yet not nicely. "I value your companionship above hers, and there is something you shall receive in return. You see, I miss my youngest sister terribly so, you know of her, little Anyali..."

"Oh, yes." She intoned, voice flat. "The Queen of the enemy's country. How noble."

"...My cherished _sister._ " She stressed the word, leaning forward so that one dark wave of hair spilled over her shoulder, fragrant and dry. "I know you yourself had lost your precious brother when he was only at five years of age..."

"And what _about_ it?" She snapped, narrowing her eyes, drawing away sharply as if stung.

"So you must know this agony of separation I am going through!" She pleaded, clasping her hands within hers, ignoring the recoil. "Please, just ten minutes, that's all I require. Not even an hour!"

"If a simple chat is all you require, you could've invited him over for tea." Bernadette replied stonily, trying to free her trapped hands, but they were held steadfast. "And release me at once!"

"I humbly refuse." For once, Alda's eyes momentarily blazed with determination, with a fire that could not be smothered, the some strong will that coursed through the veins of her sister. But this was the spark of a dark, foreboding sort of obsession. She leaned closer still, her breath caressing her powdered cheek. "As I mentioned earlier, there is a reward for you in all this."

The girl had gone quite stiff, as if unbelieving her sudden boldness, her eyes wide and almost frightened with confusion. Then it was gone, and she tried shoving her away, curling up, bringing her arms close to her body. "Ugh! How filthy you are, how could you think I―?"

"You do!" She insisted, and was upon her once more, taking her by the shoulders. "I know. You do. If not for yourself, then for the profit. You can sell me if you like―"

Her words were stopped by a fierce slap across the face, her wounded cheek inflamed a bloody scarlet, her ears ringing. Alda reeled back, but this time, Bernadette was having none of it, reversing their position so that she was now the one pressed tightly into the quilts.

"How dare you!" She snarled. "You arrogant brat! You have no right, none whatsoever, to lay your skin against mine!" She viciously thrust her fingers up beneath the hem of her gown, wriggling between warm, trembling thighs.

"To check." Bernadette said heavily, "Nothing more." But she didn't protest when the cream-smoothness of one full breast was stroked through the fabric of her robe, nearly undone by their struggles, and retaliated in her own way by sinking her hard ivory teeth into her collar while working below, unstopping until she drew blood.

And so they made a brutal pact, sworn upon in flesh.

* * *

"It's raining, your Highness." One gloved hand laid against the door of the royal couple's personal chambers, within which the hysterical Queen had been confined.

But there was no reply, as had been for the past few days. While she did have the freedom to move about the palace, restricted only in taking leave and, of course, from venturing into the servants' quarters, Anya had instead remained in her rooms taking her meals only when brought to her by a dull-eyed butler. King Alfons now refused to share sleeping arrangements with her, and so she was summarily left alone, as long as she did not attempt escape or rebellion. Was she seething, mourning, weeping, plotting? Perhaps a concoction of all of them, but she spoke to no one, not even the colonel when she came each morning to inquire upon her health. Anya, it appeared, was holding a vicious grudge against her, and despite Dominique's attempts to see it through her eyes, the extent of her bitterness troubled her. And, although not as harsh as the King so as to demand bloodshed, she too had reserves of her own against the child-royalty.

"Still just a child, you indulged in your desires thoughtlessly." She murmured, stoking the dark wood as if fragrant skin. "In but an hour, I have to adjourn for morning patrol. Until that time, may I have your company?"

Naught but silence. Heaving a sigh, she brushed the brass knob which refused to turn and allow her access, and turned to make her way down the stairway.

"Wait."

She paused, barely one step down.

"You can come in."

Anya's quiet voice was ragged and hoarse, but it was permission nonetheless. Softly, Dominique pushed on the heart of the door, only to be driven back by pungent odor. Even before taking one step into the room, it appeared the girl had eaten little of the food delivered to her, instead allowing it to rot. Was it her form of petty vengeance? Perhaps, but she had no time to dwell on such things upon seeing the Queen herself.

Time and grief had not been kind to her. Refusal to bathe had left her looking a sickly hue, her once-luxurious brown curls reduced to thick tangles. Refusal to sleep only until exhaustion claimed her had left dark imprints beneath her half-lidded eyes. Her sleeping gown was not soiled, but was still wrinkled a great deal, partially unbuttoned and fitting poorly on her frame, as if she had tried to tear at the seams. But most startling of all was her dainty face, now contorted with rage, her eyes blazing at the sight of her.

" _What have you done with her!_ " Her screams were accompanied by flung china and silverware, bone-fragile and shattering against the floral wallpaper, as the colonel barely ducked in time to avoid the fragment of a teapot handle from bloodying her cheek.

"What have you done with her!" The little Queen demanded once again, the crunch of broken glass and delicate porcelain fractions slicing her bare toes and vulnerable heels, yet she barely paid pause even as her wounds welled dark blood, which seeped into the thick carpet. "Dominique, you swore you would for-ever be loyal! How could you betray me, how could you kill her! You lied to me, just so you could lie _with_ me, is that it? You utter brute, you monster, you horrid, vile bastard child!"

She took her wrist and held it tight, even as Anya had just snatched an elegant antique vase and was holding it aloft. But her resolve did not crumble like dust, she shrieked and tried wrenching away, to no avail when Dominique clapped one gloved hand over her mouth.

"There, bite if you must! Feed on my flesh, if it will bring you satisfaction, but you must not sever your own tongue in efforts to pursue death! No matter your anguish, you must listen to reason! No more of these wild flights of fancy, for the next time, it will truly be your head!" She winced as milk-teeth tore into her tender flesh, but removed her hand only when the brutal tearing ceased, assured that Anya would not continue her violent thrashing, injuring herself in the process of raging.

"I yearn to partake of _nothing_ of yours!" She snarled, once her lips were freed, but she did not move to strike her once more, her hands instead curling into claws. Her lips, upon closer examination, were stained a brightest ruby where she had bitten them in mistake.

"Don't you have any regrets?" She demanded, before laughing in a terrible, scornful way. "I know it must be very hard for a brute such as you to grasp, but you have murdered a girl, whose only crime was to fall in love!"

Dominique merely stood there, her slow-bleeding hand limp at her side, but her usual icy, detached gaze was suddenly incensed with a frightening anger of being pushed to one's limit.

"I do," She said, her voice as bitter and cutting as the guillotine blade. "I regret not _fucking_ you. I should've shown you how to do it proper, so you wouldn't have just picked the first servant who happened to satisfy your curiosity. Perhaps, now that we've managed to meet so quaintly, I should educate you while I have the chance,"

She took a step forward, casting a long shadow that stretched across the floor; she recoiled from the colonel, as if her silhouette was a festering disease, spreading rot and ruin to all it touched. "The King gave me his permission, after all, and isn't that what you wanted from the start?"

Anya flinched violently, each word being spoken like a bullet burying into her heart. "You're cruel." She said at last, knees threatening to buckle. She turned away so her face could not be seen, trembling. "Get out."

"Your ever faithful servant." She placed her hand over her heart, but her cap was not swept off her head, as it often was in a measure of respect. She quickly turned on her heel, and closed the door.

There was no doubt that Anya's mourning continued after her departure, but if any servant dared to linger in the stairwell, they would've also caught a glimpse of Dominique, dressed in proud uniform, leaning against the gold walls inscribed with seraphs and angels, face covered by her gloved hand, and undoubtedly, silently, weeping.

* * *

“Ah―is kidney pie acceptable? Vegetables are so hard to come by fresh, and I thought―” Rosette fluttered and fussed over her own slice, occasionally stabbing her fork into the thick, black-brown, heavily burnt crust. She wore a frayed dress that at one point must’ve been flour-pale, but currently resembled the gray hue of dust, still hesitant to spend her newly-acquired wealth so lavishly on something frivolous like fanciful clothing. The soldier, per their prior agreement, had shown for mid-evening supper; it was, the common girl insisted, the least she could do to repay her.

But today, Dominique was deeply brooding over a black cess of inescapable thoughts that Rosette could not be confided within, nor give comfort regarding. She had removed her cap, as it now hung neatly upon the door, but her eyes were still shadowed with any number of demons that haunted her. She clutched the silver between gloved fingers tightly, and while a half-crumbled piece of pie had passed between her lips and remained there for several moments, still no verdict came. She was long lost in thought; she did not want to cause the girl worry, and besides―what could she say? The King had already spread an official story that Mana had attempted to poison the royal couple, she couldn’t defy his word and claim she had been the Queen's lover instead, and incidentally, she wasn’t sure which would bring more shame upon her.

Or, perhaps―

"Dominique?" The sweet-natured orphan's voice shattered her dark gloom of thoughts; she met her awaiting gaze, hastily remembering to swallow before choking.

"Ah, my apologies. You can hardly taste the burnt parts; it has quite a nice, strong flavor," She assured her, if only slightly half-hearted. "I'm sure you could get a job as a cook, with some practice."

"Oh, truly?" The bright hope in Rosette's eyes and joyous smile brought her own lips to curl up slightly, if only for a fleeting moment. Dominique laid down her rust-nibbled fork; she was unused to attending meals in the company of others'; the last time she had dined with a companion was with the Queen, during the celebration of her wedding ceremony, and even then, she had hardly tasted the rich cream stew and stuffed peacock, having naturally little appetite and being occupied with following whatever direction of conversation the newly-crowned royalty desired.

"Yes, I'm sure," She said faintly, and did not reply beyond that, already occupied with another piece of pie, once again lost to her own troubles.

Her spirits dampened by her lack of enthusiasm, Rosette too similarly fell silent, picking at the distasteful remains of her own meal. Time went on in silence as the few lit candles providing lighting burned down to thick gobs of wax, and night descended upon the city, wrapping the streets outside the shattered window in utter black, the sky too thick with smoke to lend a glimpse of majestic stars. The colonel, long having finished eating but still keeping up the polite illusion of not yet having been filled, remained in her chair while the common girl bustled around, gathering up dirty dishes and placing them into a bucket of grimy, sudsy water as filthy as the dirt floor, desperately making an attempt at cheerful chatter in order to void the lack of conversation, her cheeks burning from humiliation, as if Dominique's own reluctance to speak was somehow due to a fault or flaw of hers.

"―and then, little Pierre next door couldn't get out of the rabbit trap his father had made―silly child, he had gotten stuck there while trying to catch a mouse, thinking he could perhaps bring it to his mother and she could prepare it for supper―of course, it didn't work, his father had to pull his leg out, sunk in to the knee, while he wailed and flailed the entire time! But then, I could hardly blame him, his stomach is so thin, that boy, that he could practically be a walking, tiny skeleton! But, thanks to you, _monsieur_ ," She smiled shyly, glancing at her. "He's been eating well as of late; I give him some of the coins you so kindly presented to me."

"Is it really a mercy, though, I wonder? Perhaps I did something cruel," Dominique murmured, the first comment she had made without prodding that night.

"Cruel? Oh, no, certainly not! Why would you ever think that you are cruel? You did such a lovely, selfless thing―why, I can even afford to go to the doctor now! You have blessed me with such good fortune."

"...A doctor?" She inquired lowly, her gaze now trained on her, sharp, suspicious, concerned. "Whyever would you need a doctor, Rosette? Are you ill?" She stood up, meaning to draw towards her, but the girl fumbled, taking a shaky step back.

"No, no! Rest assured, my health is most ordinary." She smiled and shook her head, but she could not hide the sweat dappling her face, the unhealthy flush to her face. When Dominique's demanding gaze persisted, however, she wilted. "...Just a cold, is all." She relinquished. "Just a cold; I've been able to buy medicine and hot soup, I'll be fine within a fortnight."

"You've been feeding me," The soldier insisted, heedless to her protests as she gently took her by the shoulders, noticing the abrupt stiffness of Rosette when touched. "And taking care of me, when honestly, it is you who needs nursing. You sweet, foolish girl, you must take care of yourself! Come now, sit down, what else is there you have yet to confess?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. Oh, please; I didn't want to cause you distress, is all, I did not mean to lie!" Rosette cried, but did as she was bid and sunk back into her rickety wooden chair. But she bit her lip in anxiety, her gaze glassy and unable to meet hers. Firmly, Dominique gave her a little shake.

"I respect your privacy, _mademoiselle_. However, if you are suffering from grievances on my account, then it is proper that I make myself scarce―" But she was stopped when Rosette, quite abruptly, flung her arms around her neck, weeping.

"No! Please, no! I adore your company, I cannot be without it!" She begged. "I had wished to refrain from this―but there have been a manner of rumors beginning to spread, as to the source of my newfound wealth. A few of the townspeople saw you exiting the House of _Madame_ Devaulle's, and I shortly after―I believe they think that I had given you services of the flesh in exchange for payment! I am humiliated!" She sobbed, shaking fiercely, unable to stifle her tears even when Dominique deigned to softly stroke her head, just once.

"It is of no consequence." She murmured. "I know that you've had to sell yourself previously, but that is behind you. You had little choice, if you wanted to stave off hunger. Anyone would do the same. Do not listen to them, Rosette!" Her voice had suddenly gained a fire, an anger that, while not directed towards her, made her tremble. "You shall have to grow stronger, but do not listen to them. They are like a cold storm's rain, unpleasant, but harmless. You must not allow them to wrest control over your heart! Am I understood?"

"Yes," Rosette replied, thick, hot pearls of tears soaking into the soldier's scarlet jacket. "I apologize; I'm being childish. And I've ruined your uniform―"

"I'll have it washed. Within a day, it will be as good as when first issued to me." Dominique removed her hand, and while the younger girl yearned to feel that small comfort, she remained silent. Her head still lay against her chest, and upon this realization her cheeks flushed, not of fever, but of desire, upon being able to hear her heartbeats, so intimately close. Gathering her bearings, she smiled and dried her eyes, dabbing at her damp lashes.

"Such bravery," She murmured, in awe. "I wish I could be so resolute in face of such slander you have been subject to."

"Slander?" Dominique frowned; she did not recall telling the girl about her trouble with subordinates. "What slander is this?"

Rosette stifled her words in horror, covering her mouth with one hand. "You mean, you have not heard? Am I the first to inform you?"

"Again, I implore," Her tone hardened, confusion beginning to frustrate and worry her. "What do you speak of?"

She flushed prettily, turning her gaze away, ashamed to meet her eyes. One milk-pale hand reached into her pocket and fished out a crumpled piece of paper, upon which an illustration had been penned. Shakily, she straightened out the paper, handing it to her. After some effort in attempting not to tear it in her haste, she promptly unfolded it and paled to a ghastly hue.

For the sketch contained within wasn't simply some groundless gossip that so commonly littered the streets, but a claim with a much more personal impact upon her. Penned by Geraldine Babineaux, judging from the elaborate corner-hand signature, Anya was pictured nude, splayed beneath a figure none other than herself, though of course, in the illustration she had all the workings of a man. She crushed the paper within one gloved hand, her eyes blazing.

"I―I was given one by a newskeep, but a few days ago." Rosette said, her voice halting, fearing of Dominique's vicious temper being piqued. "I believe he still has many such illustrations."

"Excuse me; I believe I have overstayed my welcome long enough." She had turned and was now wrenching open the door, her cap replaced on her head.

"But, Dominique! Please, stay! You yourself had just said to ignore them, and remain stern―" She protested wildly, snatching the cuff of her sleeve. Dominique pulled away, turning back to glance at her; though angry, she still spared tenderness towards her.

"As a soldier, it is not my reputation I have to protect, but the Queen's. I thank you for your company this evening, Rosette, but now I must go."

"But where?" She asked, bewildered, crushed at her rejection, discarded in favor of the Queen. "Where will you go? What shall I do?"

Recalling a faint echo of those same distressed words, back when the Crown Princess was about to enter marriage, Dominique's expression was torn by anguish, and she tightly embraced her.

"You shall try your best, until I return." The moment passed and she swiftly pulled away, now storming her way out into the streets, briefly pausing to assure that her pistol was still at her side.

"And I, I am off to find a _Madame_ Babineaux. Every animal, no matter their attempts of sophistication, cannot resist the scent of blood." She murmured, darkly.

* * *

By the time she made it back within the boundaries of the royal city, the downpour had thickened into a storm, the cobblestone roads so slick that she dared not chance forcing her horse to gallop at full speed, lest it slip in its haste.

Truth be told, she hadn't the faintest idea of who this _Madame_ Babineaux was―other than being quite the gossipmonger―nor did she have an inkling of where to locate such a woman. And, honestly, now that she were to think with a clear head, her inflamed heart soaked with icy rain, she hadn't a plan of what to do upon finding her. She could threaten her under the oath of the Queen, yes, but then word would get out that Her Highness was now stifling freedom of thought, and she wanted to avoid bringing more misery onto Anya.

Thoroughly dampened in spirit, Dominique decided to turn in and at least avoid pneumonia, reporting early to the palace tomorrow.

That was, until the smell of smoke, heavy in such ill-tempered weather, alerted her that something was decidedly not right. Stepping down from her horse, she slipped into the alleyways behind an old and grayed butcher's, pausing to ring out her sleeves heavy with gutterwater. Her breath spilling out in thin pale vapor, hot and shallow, her heart thudding the steady beat of war drums at the street sounds of many thunderous footsteps growing nearer, the bright spark of flames and the gleam of blades passing by in the night. Waxen-looking women, sickly babes held in one withered arm, the other hand thrust high into the air with a rusted cutting ax, aged, burled wood-choppers and wiry young men, all of them wearing the same infuriated features: dark, knotted brows, noses wrinkled, their mouths open with ringing cries, shouts, and swears, shoe-less and aprons grimy with congealed fat and broth, wearing little more than rags or even the occasional glimpse of royal blue velvet, tens, hundreds, even, but it was not this disturbed mob that startled Dominique the most, but their words, once they neared close enough to the narrow alley to be heard: the brat, the tramp, pollution of the throne, the country chit should go back to Caspilene! The lesbian whore, wasting their tax money on gifts for her mistresses, the blood-hungry brat trying to claim their kingdom for her own, shameless and soiled, she'd lain with every member of her army and turned the King's servants into her own harem, she'd have their heads and then their daughters, sisters, wives!

Dominique shuddered at the brutal display, shivering violently in a way that had naught to do with the terrible conditions. Taking it upon herself to retrieve her pistol and instead replace the weapon inside her jacket, close beneath her breast, she waited, aching and shaken, for them to pass. They were headed directly to the palace by taking the roads straight, but she had a horse, and though she would have to take a longer route, lest risk getting caught at the mercy of their many hands, she had the advantage of speed.

Hurriedly mounting her stallion, she grabbed hold of the reins and traveled as fast as she could, for no force upon land could prevent her from reaching the Queen's side.

Thankfully, the gates were upon by the time she cleared the path, though she did shout for the guards to close them post-haste, ordering an official warning to the sent to the royal couple. The very moment upon touching her feet upon stone, she took no time to greet the extravagantly-costumed ladies and gentlemen who had gathered for a late-night ball, instead nimbly dashing to the King, who had halted a slow waltz with a young girl.

"A thousand pardons for interrupting you, most merciful King―a large group of common people are on their way as we speak; I believe they plan on breaking the gates!"

But Alfons was unmoved, instead fixing his soldier with a dark stare. "They have not received invitations, I'm afraid, so ask them to refrain."

"No, you do not understand―they are armed, angry!"

"Then it is the business of that Caspilene girl, not I. Those stationed up front are more than enough to halt a bunch of misfits. Now, away, you have bothered me enough."

Her hands tightening into fists, she forced her fingers to stiffen into a hasty salute, running past him and manners forgotten as she headed for the child-royalty's quarters. While upon first setting foot in the palace, she had been in awe of the many hundreds of stairs and spiraling cases, now she cursed them as her ribs threatened to collapse upon her heart, a sharp stitch digging deep into her side.

"My Queen! My Queen, I beg of you, please open your doors and bid me entry! This is a state of chaos! His Majesty refuses to listen, but you are in danger! Listen to me! _Anya!_ " She burst, her fist still pounding on the door, blood seeping into the cloth of her gloves.

Slowly, softly, the door creaked open. Her breathing ragged, Dominique took a careful step inside, hoping to avoid the sharp sting of china this time, but none came. Instead, Anya, wild-eyed and frightened, stood before her, trembling and yet making such a show of strength and pride, poised resolute and fierce.

"What is the danger I am facing, then? Because, obviously standing before the murderer of my lover is of no consequence―"

"They are going to kill you." She said, six awful words, but they had their effect.

The young girl swayed on the spot, seeming as if her knees were to buckle, but she remained strong. "That is fine, then," She murmured, but her quiet admittance turned the colonel's blood to ice. "My heart has already died, can't you see? I have done nothing for this country; if the people want me dead, then it is a service I will render to them."

"Can you not think for yourself, girl?" Dominique demanded; Anya flinched away, cringing. "You are still Anyaliavich Belovarezhnaya! Have you already forgotten my words? Do not pursue wild flights of fancy, do not pursue to death! Have you not pride as the Crown Princess of Caspilene!"

"I am _aware!_ " She snarled, head bowed. "I know full well my position is one of great honor, and an object of great desire―but not my _own!_ I want freedom, the freedom Mana gave me! I want friends, a lover, to be cared for, honestly, genuinely! Not as a mere ornament of the throne! I want my sister, Dominique, can't you understand? I want _home!_ " She sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

There was a great, vast silence, so deep it could've swallowed eternity, as if Ouroboros.

"If I had honestly done away with your most beloved, then I would've taken my own life in shame."

Wide, sea-dark eyes watched her with brittle hope and brimming with tears, her brow knitted, stained lips trembling.

"You mean to say―t-that Mana is―"

"Alive; aboard a small ship, passing herself off as a poor immigrant girl who is returning to the inlands to see her estranged parents. She's saved enough of her wages to be able to find lodgings for herself upon reaching land, and carries upon her person all the necessary papers I had requested of a young copyist apprentice to forge overnight. In Beauholm, a shallow grave meant to be her bed, is instead filled with rich, loamy soil, and otherwise lies empty. While, if you spoke with the King, there would be a brief exchange of a private execution via secluded hanging, the truth is I fired my pistol at the night sky, nothing else."

"Could―" The word escaped her throat like a dying fledgling. "Could you not―confide in me? Did―did you feel, that if I knew, I would try to follow after her―?"

"I blinded you," She said, gently. "Not out of maliciousness. Come away from the windows, something may shatter it. A stone, or arrow, mayhaps."

"Stones? Arrows?" Her voice rose into a steady shriek. "―You mean, he has decided to―carry on with my―?"

"He hasn't." She assured her. "But, nonetheless―word of your tryst got out. The people of Mondediolle are feeling humiliated, and are vicious when united. They're attempting to storm the palace, but a hundred of the front guards have done well to hold them."

"And the King," She swallowed, trying to regain color. "He is doing nothing to stop it?"

"He thought," She said dryly, "It would be a good scare for you, to serve as a warning. I'm afraid the crowd wishes death upon you, but from here, they will be unable to reach you."

"And you, Dominique?" Anya asked, trembling, tearful. "What do you wish upon me, after my cruelty towards you? I wounded you," She beckoned her close and lifted one hand, brushing her thumb along her cheek: a pale canvas, marred by a streak of vicious scarlet.

Her breath caught as the Queen stroked her face, catching that small hand within her own to guide her back to the bed, somewhere where she could sit. "It is as much my fault. I was crude to you, I lost my temper like a child. I―"

Death! Death! Death! Came the cries, closer now, at the doors, at the steps! Death to the Queen!

"I loved you," Anya murmured, eyes averted and almost wistful, the pale flesh of her throat revealed as she turned to look at the windows. "In a way. You were―are―so brave, so strong―you tried to warn me, and I didn't listen―"

Dominique grimaced, pressing one hand over her damp, dark eyes. "No matter what, you are the Queen." Hesitating slightly, she spoke her next words. "If only―no, even now, I would fulfill the request you gave me the first day we met."

After some amount of effort, Anya managed a brittle smile. When she spoke, her voice was without bitterness. "I bid you a very happy future, Dominique. One far and distant from this savagery. Although...such awful weather." She said quietly, almost idly, her small, trembling hands curled at her lap.

Dominique drew her close, so that her shoulder was against her side. "Yes," She replied, as the outside noise grew. "It seems there is a storm on its way."

There was a thunderous crash. The palace gates had broken down, and soon the royal grounds, the ornate tiles upon which the likes of grand Empresses and deceased Kings had once tread upon in the course of history, would bloom red.


	9. Chapter Eight

Even with winter's creeping storms threatening to delay any outward travelers with frigid winds and freezing rain, the Belovarezhnaya lineage insisted on holding their usual gala with the same disgusting extravagance as usual. The proud autumn plumage had been long since torn from their strong branches, like medals from a scorned officer, standing nude and ashamed at the mercy of the elements, but inside the manor it was a veritable eden of floral life, the pristine walls strung with garlands of blossoms, their silken, perfumed petals folded, bursts of color against the guests' drab clothing of formal blacks and charcoal grays, or for the women, an occasional virginal pale or dark blue.

However, neither the first daughter, nor their third were to be found. Alda was upstairs, having sequestered herself away in her room, struggling to lace the corset strings of Leonora's heavy brocade dress, after taking painstaking hours to style her hair until they were twisted and knotted into four elaborate braids, each coiled and curled into themselves, attached to her head with iron pins. Her step-sister did not take kindly or sit still during the process; the older girl's arms now bore several livid scratches, which she hid beneath long, lily-pale sleeves. The feral child grunted and twisted as nimble fingers pulled the corset tighter, enclosing upon her ribcage, and Alda sighed: nearly half a year of linguistic classes and the girl had yet to learn how to properly converse. At least no suitor would try to engage the child in any sort of talk; while a few men had cast an appreciative glance at her handsome face, once Leonora tried to stab a someone with the silverware, their attention was hastily turned towards more civil girls. Alda had a feeling that her mother and father were beginning to finally realize the futilities of trying to marry such a wild daughter off, but if they had any reserves, they kept them carefully concealed. Besides, such frivolous activities were to come to an end soon enough, what with word of Anyali's misdeeds having spread all over the continent.

A impatient, persistent knocking came at the door. "There are guests are waiting, won't you make haste before the clock strikes midnight?" Rebecca inquired with a touch of acid.

Alda hastily rose, gently ushering Leonora out the door, where her mother took stern grip of her arm, steering her down the stairs. Left behind, she swallowed a terrible dryness in her throat as she watched the two descend. Her black heart throbbed once, a hard slam against her breast.

 _I have succeeded. I have emerged victorious, I have won, upon surrendering to this terrible, devouring passion of mine. The purity of my soul and the pale hue of my love has been tainted with greed and desire, the spring roses of my eternal gardens within memories have withered; there is no more sunlight, only rain and storms, thunder and unease. I have sold favors and lain with my own fair sex, I have bribed and cheated to politicians, I have attempted to nurture a false affection towards my dear, sweet, animal sister in replacement, but it is no good, neither services of flesh nor occupations of the mind can cure me of my curse, this hunger, this loneliness, this cruelty of mine that drives me so, orchestrating my own ruin_ ― _oh Anya! Dear Anya! Be mine, come here, draw close! Just a glimpse upon your face, just a single bell-sweet word from your lips, and I shall be satisfied!_

She descended the stairs slowly, knowing no eye was spared for her. Somewhere, a woman screamed as Leonora tore a paper fan into shreds, but she paid it little mind. Finally having touched down to the lush carpet, she was hardly conscious of anything at all until the heavy doors abruptly flew open, a red-cheeked messenger boy running in.

"They're sending in troops! Those foreign soldiers, they are coming! They are coming!"

However, upon her success of reuniting with her separated sister, a brewing tragedy would also reach full bloom.

* * *

For a long while after that night, papers littered the streets, supposedly claiming the truth of the Storming of the Royal Palace, yet while also containing such fantastical details like parades of bloody aristocrat heads on pikes and an almost success at dragging out the young Queen before her best soldier put a stop to it, shooting ten in the heart and stabbing six others. Of course, those actually present would know the colonel hadn't injured anyone, for immediately after the front gates had been broken, the commoner mob had swiftly been arrested by a wave of the King's reinforcements. Nevertheless, the attempt lived in infamy, and proved to act as a spark that, just days later, would inflame a vicious and rampant uprising between countries, of which there was no stopping.

On October fourth, 1774, the treaty between Mondediolle and Caspilene was broken, and war was officially declared.

Mondediolle claimed Caspilene's child was a traitor to their people, those of blue blood and common heritage alike, and had foisted upon them starvation, disease, immorality, and the diseases of both lesbianism and the insanity of sexual drive within a woman. She also, accordingly, took many of their good King's servants as lovers, and sold favors like the common whore in order to procure those of her biased fondness into high positions. Caspilene claimed that Mondediolle had insulted the noble Belovarezhnaya lineage by making such incredulous claims and ignoring the faults of their own King, and furthermore, in accepting Anyaliavich as their Queen, such responsibilities were on their own heads, not theirs.

Neither side was willing to accept a blow to their pride, and as such, it came as no surprise for Dominique Knight when she was summoned before the King, and told shortly that her platoon would be departing by the following morning to Pararnul, a tiny little slice of Old Country that managed to tip just on Mondediolle's side of the border. She was told to secure enough rations, medical supplies, the obvious load of weaponry, and other such provisions to last for several months. At best, she would be back by January. At worst, her family would receive a telegram. Saluting grimly, she dared not venture up to Anya's quarters and break the unpleasant news of her most recent assignment just yet, deciding to first do as she was bid, and gather supplies.

Later, when she informed her troops, she was unsure whether to be enthused or unsettled at Lionel's personal spark of joy at hearing the news that they were to be sent out. Soldiers are to be in lust with battle and aficionados of gore, so said he, but Dominique ignored the gruesome talk and gave all her men a stern glance, reminding them that unless they were to behave in strict obedience towards her, their horrid patrols and weak will of hearts were to be their undoing in the battlefield.

While nothing sent her heart into such a frenzied passion as ambushes and pursuit, it was not from joy, but the deep feeling of strength for protecting those whom were beloved. She honestly had no pursuals to glory, nor any such yearning for heads on pikes and swords run through with enemy blood; she did not enjoy being called a murderer, a soldier, a hero, a scoundrel, whether in jeers and prayers, cries and pleas, but it was most definitely her desire to enlist and serve, but as an enforcer of the people's will, not as a madman engorged with the wild freedom and insanity of such a terrible event as war.

And so, she could not help but feel troubled at the thought of such young men, blind to the brutality and eyes bright with star-struck images of banners and after-service medals, to be thrust into such an awful business, so soon, far too soon.

* * *

"Ah..." She murmured, her eyes downcast, delicate hands clutching her little cup of steaming, fragrant tea. "...You are departing. It's only natural, upon war being declared. It seemed inevitable, truly. Peace has never lasted long between Mondediolle and Caspilene, I admit...my hopes were flimsy."

"Rosette," Dominique gingerly placed her hardly-touched cup down, her tone urging her to raise her lowered gaze. "I will not be so long; half a year, at most. I will return, I swear this to you."

"Did the Queen decide that?" A frightening, malicious note had slipped into Rosette's honeyed voice. Her fingers looked as if they were to shatter the fine china held between. "Did she say, you'd be gone but six months? Did she not want you to stray from her side for so long? ―Did she ever thank you? I imagine she must have; she naturally would be most grateful, after the way you rushed off during our last meeting, in order to protect her pride―"

"Stop it; for such crude speech to spill from those dainty lips, what has suddenly become of you―" Her tone was now rising as well, in both alarm and sharp defense; this sudden change in darling Rosette startled her.

"I will not―are the papers true, then?" She pleaded, her words now trembling with delicate frailty, as if a fledging about to topple out of its nest, into the world's waiting fangs and claws. "So the rumors are true―"

"Hold your _tongue!_ " She snapped; there was the faint noise of shattering china, her fist having upturned it in a rush of scalding fury.

Rosette's dark eyes were brimming with tears, but she swallowed the next words which threatened to bubble up in her throat, shivering and desperately trying to hold in her infuriated sobs. "...Please, drink your tea, _monsieur_."

"I think I've had enough." The soldier made to stand but Rosette caught her by the cuff, and this time, her grip was strong as oxen, nothing like the weakened butterfly grasp at their first meeting.

"Please," She repeated softly, almost as if a sigh, "Tonight is the last time I will see you in days, weeks, months! Spare me this small mercy, forgive my rudeness. Am I perhaps boring you?"

"Nothing of the sort," She said shortly, wrenching her arm away. Her face was flushed from anger, the fabric of her uniform coat growing uncomfortably hot against her sweat-dappled back. "I have simply lost my good spirit is all; I've fallen into a foul mood."

The young girl snatched her hand back, biting her bottom lip. "I-If you desire―I am not against a brief visit to the House of _Madame_ Devaulle's―" She shuddered, as if the words took great effort to even utter, her face flushing crimson.

Dominique paled, her expression quickly taking on a look of horror and disgust. "―Is that honestly what you think I want?" She asked in disbelief. "Do you think I partake in your company―in hopes of _seducing_ you? If that was true, I would've taken you on the bed! I would have no need to attend dinners or make smalltalk―I am here because I deeply and truly value you, not for the services of your flesh, but as a dear companion!"

Rosette began sobbing in earnest now, shaking her head fiercely, despairing. "No―that's not what I think! I know, honestly, you care for me! And I appreciate that, I treasure our relationship! However―to be a simple companion, is not satisfactory! I know it is the Queen who has captured your heart, and in comparison, I am no match against her! And so, I have tried, so many times, never quite having the courage to―but tonight, our final night, you see, I've applied the proper fixings to your drink―"

"Fixings!" Her head was swimming at this barrage of new information, accusations, wild confessions. "What fixings!"

"―Fixings, dear Dominique―fixings to hopefully incite some attraction within you, towards me! Physical love! Bodily trappings! Though I beg of you, do not misunderstand; that is not all I wish for! I desire to be held, to be loved! But you will never take me within your arms of your own volition, and my heart breaks because of it! Because I love you!"

The colonel had gripped her by the shoulders barely after the words had managed to escape, her beast-like eyes, wild and enraged reflecting her terrified expression, her tainted breath against her lips. Within a matter of moments, she had forced Rosette down upon her own kitchen table, its ancient, rusted nails threatening to snap beneath the weight she was shoving down upon her, buttons snapping off, pale, kicking thighs exposed as she struggled in hysterics, the soldier practically on all fours as she kept her in place, shuddering with brutish panting and face flushed crimson, teeth grit, the sharp angles of hipbones conjoined tight. Rosette choked over her words of protest, trying to free herself but only succeeding in forcing the pistol fastened at her waist deep into her soft stomach, gloved fingers searing a burning brand into her shoulders.

"You," She snarled, the girl flinching with her every ragged breath, "Have _never_ loved!"

Shoving her back, leaving the traitorous wench in feverish delirium, she couldn't even stand to close the door as she charged blindly into the freezing streets, forcing herself to restrain the savage temper and encroaching lust within her, at least until she reached the House of _Madame_ Devaulle's, deciding to pay a visit to _Mademoiselle_ Elise.

As the people in their homes lit fires to ward off winter's fatal chill, to Dominique, they seemed as if funeral pyres.

* * *

The following day, she arrived in Pararnul.


	10. Chapter Nine

Little shops stuffed full of tea cakes and suspicious dried herbs, worn shoes and childrens' trinkets, broken birdcages and cracked porcelain vases, hand-painted and imported from the Yellow Country, lined the filthy streets, the pungent odor of manure and sweet rotting meat settled into the dusty brown air as the seven soldiers in civilian clothes passed through, walking their grand stallions behind them. Children with faces black from soot and toothless old women with their thick-veined fat spilling out from beneath the hems of aprons watched them, the younger ones giggling and continuing their games, while others, particularly the elderly, had all the seriousness of a funeral.

Not far behind their leader, Lionel gave a distinct shudder, and muttered sourly beneath his breath, "Where have all the pretty maids gone? This wretched country hole can't be simply brats and old bats! Tell me we're at least staying in a decent inn."

Dominique, irritated from the previous night's fiasco and only further incensed from the way her dark wool sweater itched, had little patience for such complaints. "It is because of such thoughtless comments that they hide their girls." She said shortly, keeping her eyes lowered, fixed at one spot on the cobblestone. "Were you expecting baskets of fruit and offerings of goose-down mattresses? We are strangers in this town, remember that."

The man grumbled in return, continuing his march. "Tell me where we're taking up lodgings." He demanded, like a petulant child.

She didn't give him the satisfaction of raising her temper, gritting her teeth and replying coldly, "The nearest one we find, with a staff who knows to keep quiet."

"Or you'll buy them out? All the maids?" Lionel sneered.

"No, I imagine you'll have done that long before I." She said flatly, the pleasure of spitting back into his face a little vicious truth causing the young soldier to yank on the reins of his horse with unneeded force.

Though it was just past noon, the sun had been hidden from view by a heavy fog, draped like a canopy across the iron-gray sky; rain threatened at any moment. Thankfully, an inn was found: a tidy little place―tidy as in quaint, for it certainly wasn't any cleaner once the seven tied up their horses and walked in, taking shelter from the thickening drizzle, their boots coated with a layer of brown mud―but with limited vacancy, which meant two per room, and the remaining three to another. Vaughn, Alcott, and Orrick were grouped together, as were Gore and Rhett, and lastly, Dominique had all the rotten fortune to share close quarters with Lionel―but it was necessary, she reminded herself, to make sure he didn't thrust his hand up the wrong skirt and cause a skirmish; the last thing they wanted was to attract even further attention to themselves.

Their three little rooms were, as Lionel put it, more claustrophobic than the holes rats made for themselves in cellars. Positively tiny, there was hardly any room for the single bare mattress and one sagging cot to be set up side by side, without so much as twin dressers, instead being limited to a single six-drawer piece. There was no separate room, no other private corners, instead simply some thick wax candles burnt down the wick, and a chair inexplicably drawn up next to the drawers, despite there being no table. The floors were black wood, filthy from neglect and poor sweepings, and beneath the bed, a rather fat spider had made an enormous web for itself.

After spending a short time relieving herself of her packings, Dominique tried to rest after the long arduous journey, having claimed the mattress for her own use, but the dust irritated her eyes and she could get little relief while still wearing her thick sweater, being unwilling to remove even a single piece of clothing with Lionel so close in proximity. The mattress also happened to be lumpier than a bed of rocks, and with her own personal pistol being pressed painfully against her breast, she eventually abandoned all hope of slumber, instead turning to a deck of cards for at least something to occupy her hands with.

Evening finally descended, Dominique having had an early dinner of hard cheese and bread that was still fresh, while Lionel sat slouched on his cot, blowing the smell of his vanilla tobacco out the window. The sweat-stained workman's shirt and frayed slacks positively stunk of its bittersweet juices, so much so that the colonel was severely tempted to leave to get fresh air. When the soldier had smoked his fill, he pulled off his shirt with his usual brashness and changed into a surprisingly regal-looking one, with long sleeves and frilled cuffs, the material being quality black silk, with a thick blue stripe down the front.

"Wait," Dominique held up a bare hand, laying down the cards she had idly been shuffling through. "Where are you going? It's nearly night."

"Exactly," Lionel said, wrenching open the door. "I'm certainly not going to spend the night with another man when there are other, much more nubile sights to see."

"Those are not Mondediolle's colors."

He scoffed deep in his throat, rolling his lip back in an arrogant gesture to reveal a flash of teeth. "Are you going to take them off for me, then?"

Dominique slitted her eyes at the young man, his dark brown hair unbrushed, wearing a fanciful shirt and velvet slacks, entirely frivolous items to bring to war, the smooth skin of his upper lip beginning to grow in a black mustache, eyes bright with malice. He could almost, almost be handsome, but his beast-like personality dashed even the tiniest smidgen of respect for him. Still, she was not looking for a fight.

"If you want to act like a child so badly," She said icily, turning back to her aces and kings. "Then come over here and I'll spank you."

The door slammed; she resumed shuffling, not even lifting her eyes.

* * *

Lionel stormed out of the room, eyes blazing and cheeks flushed in humiliated anger, as they so often were whenever that supposed colonel of his spoke; for all his flat gazes and monotone voice, infuriatingly arrogant taunts lied just beneath the veneer of politeness. Only a few years his superior, only a few mere inches of height between them, yet Dominique acted as if he was the King himself, giving orders with such ridiculous preconceived notions of his own station being so much higher than his. They were both soldiers, and yet, he wore his uniform as if it were a ermine cape delivered from His Majesty himself!

And, on the subject of royalty―upon finding the sketch of his leader and that lesbian country chit, Lionel's blood burned black in his veins. Not because he held any fondness towards the Caspilene brat herself, but in envious hatred of the other man, whom already had wealth, power, and now any woman in the world at his feet. Whereas he? Lionel had naught but a shopkeeper fawning over him. He wanted to reduce that smug face into a bloody residue, until warm gore caked against his fists; his wanted to silence those stinging remarks―but of course, even when he was enchanted beneath the sweet taste of alcohol, he wasn't so foolhardy so as to raise his weapon against one who, as begrudging as he was to admit it, was faster and lighter on his feet than him.

At least the drink was plentiful in this rotting town. And unlike the muddied children and hags he had seen earlier, there were decent pickings of soft flesh now that night had fallen; it appeared that the more adventurous women had no issue with strangers in their land. After downing no more than two bitter, honey-colored drinks did one such girl slink over to his side, looking up at him in such an angle that exposed her long neck. After exchanging idle pleasantries, his thick fingers were already entwined with her black garter, and he was satisfactorily drunk. His face buried in her limp salt and pepper curls, his lips found her fragrant throat.

"Give me that."

―His fingers stiffened, pulling his face away at the sound of the colonel's voice. But the man hadn't been speaking to him, instead perched at the opposite end of the room with a private table to himself, his eyes not even casting a warning glance in his direction. He was looking at no one, talking with no one, and was instead nursing a drink of his own. Lionel couldn't see the contents but could easily guess, given Dominique's glassy, downcast gaze. Turning his attention back to his obedient little whore, he murmured into her ear about a more private room for the two of them. She giggled and nodded assent, and as he slipped one arm around her curved waist to lead her out, he saw the other man downing alcohol as if deprived of water for days―from what he was trying to escape from was no care of his, but he could not suppress the curious realization that the colonel, too, had his own demons.

He was glad for it.

* * *

Perhaps she had drunk a little too much―no, she knew from the stagger in her steps, she had definitely drank too much, once again overestimating herself. If she went off for nightly patrols, she came back with a whore on her arm. If she deigned to have supper with a close friend, she returned home ridiculously aroused, like a schoolchild at the height of her lusts. And it was perhaps inevitable, if she went to have a single drink in hopes of luring slumber into her arms, to stumble back to her room barely able to see straight.

Dominique knew she was going to regret her reckless binge in the morning, but at the moment, the vaguely sickening tilt of the room drew her eyes to the smallest of things in wonderment―how many steps there were on the stairwell, how far her feet were from solid wood, how her head was feeling lighter than it had in a long while, usually held severely down, not just from her dark cap, but from the weight of solemnity in the face of disobedience, anguish, torn between loyalties, the choice of how and whether to return affections, betrayal―

Her nails dug sharply into her bare palms at the last thought, leaving bloody half-moons deep in the skin. It was not the time to dwell on her personal troubles, and she certainly didn't want to think about _that_ , the unfortunate night when, for the first time in years, she had lost her temper so utterly. With another drunken trip and nearly pitching backwards, she abandoned the thought of returning to her room post-haste, instead opting to see the night sky.

Evenings in Pararnul were unforgivingly bitter; as soon as she stepped out the inn door into the fresh air, the frigid wind cut into her flushed cheeks like a knife; she had to grit her teeth against the cold, pulling her sweater closer to herself―winters in Mondediolle's royal city were never subject to such harsh conditions. Usually she had spent her days of dead trees and frozen streets inside by a warm, roaring fire, particularly after a long patrol at Beauholm. If Pararnul was still within their borders, she couldn't begin to imagine the cold of Caspilene. Were their summers considered light if it consistently snowed?

She shook her head briskly, her breath escaping her in a pale puff of air, idly rubbing her bare hands together. She still felt a bit nude without her gloves, but it would've seemed odd to wearing such thin, pristine ones if at all, when a more sensible traveler would've opted for at least some heavy, woolen ones. After a moment or two of adjusting, leaning against a post for support, she finally turned her gaze up to the dark sky, and found it to be a plethora of divine stars, irretrievable pale pearls amongst black ink, the realm of littlest Aphrodite and youngest, damned Persephone had roamed in the summer days prior to their great legends of tragedy. Dominique paused as soft footsteps came up behind her, whipping her head around so fast that her neck audibly cracked. To her relief it was no burled idiot looking for a tussle, but a young lady. She gave a cynical little sigh, but held her tongue; it was only too ironic that here, too, shadows of her past grievances seemed to follow her. It was too dark to honestly see her properly, but from the dim inside light that seeped out through fogged glass, she had earnest wide eyes and a sensible dark braid trailing down her side. She wasn't quite a girl, having reached an age too self-assured for such innocence, but she definitely wasn't the sort of Beauholm's nymphs. She had on some cloying flowery perfume the soldier could not place, but at the least, it appeared she did not want to engage in conversation, perfectly content in standing in silence.

At least, until one warm hand found hers, and Dominique slammed her back against the pillar in unrestrained disgust. "Leave me be," She said, or at least tried to say, as she found the effect of her words had lost their sharpness, instead slurring heavily.

The girl took no heed, grasping her hand gently, her face far, far too close, making Dominique's skin crawl. The colonel shied away, yanking her hand away to try and shove her back by the shoulders, having forgotten her inhibitions against violence in her intoxication, and it was in that moment upon closing the distance that she realized the girl's strange scent.

Roses.

Between assaulting memories she had fruitlessly tried to bury, the thick, candied scent of roses, the ocean of stars which swam above her, her vision was lost as she tried to ward off illusionary and genuine hands alike: Elise's fingers working inside her, Rosette sobbing, her heart beating drum-like against her palm, inadvertently caught against one small breast as she pushed her down onto the table, Anya's wedding day, her small thighs shivering and knocking beneath the snow-pale hem of her frilled gown―

_Forgive me, I never did bid farewell―_

She had enough presence of mind to pitch her head over the railing before being sick, her lashes damp with either rainwater or tears, she knew neither which they were, her regal shoulders, always so straight and proud, reduced to shuddering with the force of her sobs, the scent of roses choking her.

* * *

Even after having purged, it took Dominique several minutes of gathering enough composure to stand up straight without flinching, instinctually afraid of toppling in the opposite direction, ashamed and frustrated at herself for drinking so much that she lost control of herself. She wiped the back of her hand against her sweaty brow, hoping the inside chatter of the inn had smothered the amount of noise she had been making. Her face was still stained red, her body wracked with faint shivers as she took a deep breath of night air that had thankfully lost its floral touch, though her mind was still far from restful.

Slipping inside unnoticed, she took the stairs slowly and leaned heavily against the wall upon seeing no one in the stairwell to catch her in such a weakened state. The last time she could recall being so similarly disoriented was at the early age of twelve, when she had accompanied her uncle on a hunting trip in the lovely pale forests of Marcine.

He had shot a buck, and then passed the rifle on to her. She remembered the weapon being heavy in her fey arms _―_ it was a feat of strength that she could even hold it up, her milky hands trembling wildly as she struggled to raise the barrel to shoulder-height, in an effort to properly aim. She clicked back the trigger, and there was the deafening crack of a gunshot, the taste of iron in the back of her mouth; she had ended up knocked to the ground from the recoil. Her uncle had roared with laughter as she shakily got to her knees, having scared off the raccoon she had been aiming for, but when she told her grandfather of their adventure, he had boxed her ears severely until they turned crimson. As she muttered apologies over supper, taking small bites of black pudding, she remembered the vibrant autumn sky yawning endlessly above her in that one dizzied descent. After that, she had never gone hunting again, her uncle's disappointment being a paltry fee in exchange for banishing recurring nightmares of being trapped within tangles of dead branches, with their fanciful colors of gold and scarlet and the smell of burnt summer, hoping to ensnare her.

―It was the sound of moaning which brought her back to reality, pulling her out of the dark waters of childhood. She wrinkled her nose at the strong scent of perfume, thankfully lilac this time but no less potent, the sound of husky laughter spilling out from beneath her door. Without knocking, the colonel steadied herself and pushed on the wooden frame, nearly wrenching the brass doorknob out of its socket upon seeing the lewd sight of one of her men, his face shamelessly buried between full breasts, his hands working to rid the girl of her petticoat and frilled underthings. Apparently even her abrupt entrance hadn't alerted them of an intruder in their midst; Dominique slammed the door shut, her eyes dark and vicious; she knew Lionel was the most rebellious of her soldiers, but she hadn't pegged him as the most stupid―what was he thinking, already trying to bed a strange woman when they were trying to lie low and not make a scene!

"Get out." She pronounced with a note of frigid finality in her voice; she was pleased to hear the slur was mostly gone.

Lionel remained slumped over as the girl tried to rearrange her corset properly where the strings had been undone; and Dominique's blood burned as the man looked over his shoulder at her with a limp frown, as if she was a mere maid or servant, having the gall to look mildly annoyed instead of utterly mortified. "No, _monsieur_ , I think I'll stay right where I am." He made another grab for his whore, but she made an apologetic wave and scurried out, wilting beneath the other soldier's gaze.

The door opening and slamming shut finally seemed to pull him back to the reality of the situation, and he lurched up, deeply drunk, his cheeks red as the scarlet of their uniforms, his dark hair tousled and elegant attire wrinkled.

"You," He said thickly, half spitting into her face, "Ruin everything! You straight-laced little boy, you're a child too scared to play in the mud, lest you break your wooden swords!"

"I prefer not wallow in filth like the common mongrel." She retorted, the alcohol still running strongly in her, given she, too, felt her hands curl into fists.

Lionel made a guttural noise, a harsh, barking laugh. "You've already had your turn of tousling in the dirt, Colonel. More than any of us had. Tell me, how was the brat in bed? Was she every bit as small as in the paper? Or were you every bit as terrible as you are with whores? I can't be surprised if she cried; she prefers girls after all, and while you do have a pretty face, you're every bit the bitch."

"Stop it," She snapped, taking in a shallow breath through her nose, but fury was singing through her blood.

He, however, stupidly continued after shaking his head, "No, from the looks of you, you must've been ridden! No stamina whatsoever, you can't hold even a single drink or cigarette, of course a little cunt like that would be the one to top, no wonder you didn't want to leave her harem―"

Her fist slammed into his arrogant face, hopefully to split that grin forever and break his teeth in. She didn't give him a chance to react; his scream of agony was choked off when she looped the length of twisted sheets around his throat and pulled viciously at either end, driving her knees into his shoulders. For a moment, genuine fear sparked in those dark depths, though it was lost in fury; she wouldn't be satisfied until they were clouded over in death!

She hadn't counted on, however, Lionel's upper body strength. She tried to silence his strangled, hoarse yells by yanking with renewed strength, but the sheets were not made of such strong material to kill a man; the threads were tearing in her grip, and the moment he felt the fabric yield, he smashed his skull against her forehead. In an anguishing moment of darkness, she could almost taste the autumn winds before she realized it was the sickening taste of heady copper she forced herself to swallow in the back of her throat; her head spun, flashes of colors and interludes of nothingness burst within her vision, and Lionel already on his feet, readying another blow, bringing his boot down hard, just beneath her heart. An unrestrained scream tore from her throat when she felt bone crunch and shatter, her vision blurring between the pounding of her skull, the broken arcs under her breast, and the furious, ragged breaths that reminded her mercilessly that she was still conscious to the living world.

Unable to stand, she fumbled beneath her sweater, yanking out her pistol and pulling back the hammer, her sweaty, trembling hand barely able to hold it steady, black blotting out her vision, her lungs fluttering like a pink moth against her crushed side. Another sharp whimper and gasp spilled from her lips as she futilely tried to prop herself up on her free elbow; she instead remained prone, her gaze speaking of murder as Lionel finally, finally had seemed to wrest back control over himself.

Dominique cringed; she knew if he sent one sharp kick to her head and she'd be little better than a corpse, but the threat of bullets allowed her to regain at least some smidgen of victory, despite the pathetic sight of the proud colonel lying on her back, her wounded side soaking her sweater and thin undershirt with blood. She tried to speak, to tell him to fetch a doctor, but she could barely grit her teeth long enough to swallow her cry of anguish.

But even without speaking, it seemed he understood her plea; he left soon after, and the sound of heavy boots stampeding down the stairs was her serenade as she fell into dark bliss.

* * *

She regained consciousness after what she was told was a day later, the room alit with only a few flickering lanterns; it was the witching hour. Panic seared through her at the thought of her torso being wrapped, but with a grateful sigh, Orrick informed her that no one had touched the colonel while she was unconscious. She was told Lionel was bunking with them until her wounds healed, and while there were no fingerprints, his throat bore livid bruises. She swore out the doctor when pressed on the origin of their injuries, claiming they had gotten into a fight with some rebellious Pararnuliese, and declaring the natural healing process would work just fine in lieu of professional medical attention. If she confessed that Lionel had crushed two of her ribs, then it was obvious that her head would be on the chopping block as well.

Left alone, Dominique immediately tried to extract herself from her soiled sweater, though instead of taking it off and risk elbowing herself in the ribs, she took the knife which had been left with a bowl of half-peeled apples, and cut it open from collar to hem, having to turn her face away at the stench of such great quantities of blood, having dried stiffly on her clothing and ruining them, even her pale skin being thoroughly stained. She would have to wash herself with a sponge later; she could see that it would still bleed freshly for some time, wincing at the sight of dark, wet scarlet staining her fingers, she shoved her hand deep into her pocket, hoping to later bury her ruined clothes in secret, and along with that, any reminder of her unnutured femininity. It was as if she was lost in the forest again, scared and hiding behind her uncle's legs, jumping at the crackle of leaves.

"The branches are reaching for me, grandfather," She murmured, and buried her face within her hands, refusing to let herself weep until the stars burnt out against the first carnation-pink streams of morning sun, one by one.


	11. Chapter Ten

Eight weeks.

It had been eight long, arduous weeks, of nights where sleep eluded her, leaving only the shadows and stars for company, of gauzy-gray days filled with splattering rain, forced to rely on strong drink to ease her anguish, of living on the nausea-inducing soups her soldiers brought her twice a day, so heavy with paprika they appeared to be a bloody broth. She was able to sit up without assistance and bring the spoon smoothly to her mouth at her best moments, but on her worst days, she had not been spared the humiliation of being fed by her own subordinates. In the event of needing to freshen herself, she absolutely refused to be accompanied during those times, resorting to using damp towelettes in lieu of hot, honeyed water when she needed to wash, and had chamber pots placed beneath her bed when she had to relieve herself. The only one who had not aided her in this vulnerable time was Lionel. That, she considered a small mercy.

Today, she was feeling much better than she had in a long while, the throbs of pain almost entirely faded, though that could have been due more to her sixth glass of wine than the healing passage of time. Unfortunately enough, while the alcohol did numb most sensations, that also meant her balance and strength had been significantly depleted. So, she grudgingly opened her mouth and swallowed the scalding soup without tasting it, tears leaping unbidden to her eyes. She remained silent as Vaughn dipped back into the porcelain bowl, obediently taking several more swallows until her throat felt blistered, at which point she pulled her face away.

"I've had enough." She said firmly, and he got to his feet, leaving the dish and silverware on the chair. His hand was on the knob when Dominique cleared her throat and added, "Since my health has recovered, we'll be setting out within a couple of days. It may be two, or three until I get my balance back. Pack, and be prepared to depart soon." 

The man shut the door without pause.

Slowly shifting herself onto the edge of the mattress, she gingerly tried lowering her ankles to the wooden floors. She loathed feeling brittle, as if she would collapse without arms to catch her.

"I will hold onto every last scrap of dignity I have; until the breath leaves my body, you will obey me." She swore, and for the first time in months, stood up entirely on her own.

* * *

It was impossible to find a piece of country unravaged by war.

The Salon of Austrennium had broken out into a bloody siege once members of the Britentium Riots had broken down the doors and windows of the Central Office in protest, taking advantage of the blockade and setting civilian houses aflame with Molotov cocktails. East and West Romovona had begun a civil war, and the neighboring province had their own soldiers being sent up to Ursacius in the relentless winter chill.

And, of course, the Third Great War between Caspilene and Mondediolle was well underway, after a shaky peace barely lasting three years.

While they, under the King's orders, were still stationed in Pararnul, it was thankfully a long country, and Dominique, desperate to get away from their barren little town, decided to head north. And so, they currently were holding shelter in Obinheim, a fair-sized city, its skies blackened from the burnt remains of their neighboring province, reeking eternally of smoke. They were closer to Caspilene now; it was impossible to pretend war was no longer a reality, as Lionel insisted on doing, swinging about his sword and pistol like a child playing horses and soldiers. Dominique hadn't been reading often, but from the few glances she spared at the paper, she had found out three dozen men had died a week prior, in an attempt to halt the surge into Romerana's borders―she often had to tightly clench her hands whenever in Lionel's presence, just to resist knocking some sense into him.

She had heard nothing of Anya in the news, and she considered that a blessing. Over the past few months, she had been plagued with more unease and anxiety over the young Queen's condition than she cared to admit. In her absence, she dreaded a repeat palace storming, but if no word of incidents had reached the public, she at least had the minimal comfort of assuring herself that she must have been safe.

And Beauholm, as far as the paper was concerned, simply ceased to exist. This, too, was fortunate; better to remain unknown, rather than thrown into the spotlight over some gory coup. Try as she did to rid her thoughts of the common girl, Rosette remained as two entities in Dominique's mind: one as the kind flower, and one as the traitorous thorns. It was only too ironic she had claimed love, after intoxicating her with deceptive nectar. Did that mean that Dominique was the wasp to devour her? She could not forgive her, but she could not claim vengeance either.

"You've gotten your wish, you've poisoned me slowly," She murmured. "And yet, I could not―and perhaps still cannot―resist its sweetness. Kindly, return to your garden, just leave me in peace."

Greeted with naught but silence in her cramped quarters, she poured herself another glass of cheap liquor―crass on the palate, but strong enough to fog the mind―and idly polished her pistol.

And so the thorns buried deeper.

* * *

She ate a meager little supper of watery soup and overcooked potatoes, but she didn't pay heed to the hard, lukewarm lumps she faithfully spooned down her throat, simply needing to eat so that it wasn't just drink running clear through her blood. She tasted none of it and swallowed mechanically, her head was once again full of that familiar haze, the sweet euphoria of teetering on oblivion's edge, toying with a little death of her own, bottled in a perfectly compact glass. Unfortunately, she noted with sour pessimism, she was not so intoxicated so as to completely forget her surroundings; namely, the other occupants of the room.

"Aren't you going to whisk me away," Simpered the whore, who had already forced herself halfway onto her lap, her long arms wrapped around her shoulders like curls of pale ribbons. Dominique didn't even know her name, or she did not remember, if and when the girl had ever formally introduced herself. "Aren't you going to kiss me, oh savage and fierce hero, and tell me that we should run away together?"

The soldier didn't grace her with a reply, merely giving her a filthy look before downing nearly half of her glass' contents in a single swallow. But she could still feel the weight of her dark stare upon her, languishing like a specter intent on tormenting her. "...If I dance with you, will you leave me be?" She murmured, cringing at the thought.

And so, she found herself embraced in awkward, shuffling tango, her arm wrapped firmly around her waist, hand in hand. She grunted at the first twist, failing to remember all the sharp movements involved when she had agreed to it, but by now it was far too late. It was a shameful and humiliating affair, her timing was off and her movements sloppy, leaning deeply over her, soft skin laying into her fingers, splotches of ecstatic color bursting at the edges of her vision, sweet nothings creeping into her ears. Now that she had a closer look, she could see the girl was small, with cinnamon-brown curls of hair, inciting memories to surface and repeat like a broken reel. In fact, she almost bore vague resemblance to Anya―

"Close, it's Anita," Came the demonette's whisper at her ear, and she realized she must've been speaking aloud.

"Another?" She sighed and cursed her luck, but Anita had little idea of what she was babbling on about, instead seeming to find it amusing.

"―They're everywhere, these days." The girl mused, and Dominique, already paying little attention to her voice, was beyond bewildered at this sudden twist in conversation, and simply remained silent. "Men like you, turning to drink. Which tragedy are you escaping?"

"War," She muttered, catching her in her arms. Perhaps that was saying too much already, but her lips had been loosened. "War in general."

"All too many can say that. Have you heard about the crash of the Miranda?"

It was as if ice-water had been poured over her, her hand tightening, her eyes ablaze with dread. "The Miranda?" It could not be, it certainly was not the same ship her Indian fugitive had smuggled away onto, was it?

"Oh, indeed. Tragic, terrible, really. Such a big passenger ship like that, no survivors, overturned in freezing waters. It's been in the paper, haven't you heard?"

She couldn't breathe; she released the girl to cough, throat burning with the alcohol, choking at the bile that had abruptly surged upwards, setting the delicate lining aflame. She managed a choked sob for fresh air, torso heaving, her shoulders wracked with spasms. Distantly, she threw open the door to her quarters, collapsing upon the rickety chair, crushed beneath her own grief.

But she could not be so arrogant as to mourn first, not without informing Anya. She cared little if it would reveal her location; right now her thoughts were absorbed by Mana's severed half, the pitiable creature, it would devastate her! But it would be even crueler to keep her silence, and so, she began to compose:

_Queen Anyaliavich,_

_The winter's hands are at my shoulders with each passing day, but even so, I make time to drink to your good health each evening. The crumpled newsprints and twigs feed a small fire very well, and a warm cup of tonic is exactly what will last through the nights, and prevent me from succumbing to my natural instinct for slumber. Lionel has agreed with the previously discussed plan of action; he shall be crossing into foreign territory by dawn. He will be aided by Gore and Rhett, while I and the remaining platoon shall remain behind, again, as we agreed upon. The weather remains frighteningly cold though significantly cloudy, so the overcast skies provide ample coverage._

_I admit, upon being stationed in a foreign land, my worst fear was the trenches. However, nothing of the sort has unlucked itself upon me. The city here is vivid and colorful with all sorts of peculiar fashions and feasts that, while paling in comparison to our kingdom, still present itself in the most oddest of ways, but my men are all too interested in another kind of 'delectable'_ ― _they say the local women here are most appetizing, to continue the metaphor._

_I can only pray that the relations at the palace are remaining as good-natured as the one between my subordinates and myself. I heard the King's touch of current darkness has almost passed, but do take caution, my Liege, for a sparrow has informed me that there are great many more harmful things than bodily ailments that lurk within the palace. It is this, along with my own ignoble passions, my shame in battle, that have led me to lift this childish veil from my eyes._

_While I have witnessed endless splendor and delights spent your company, riches beyond my imaginings and joy filling my being above my worth, I also see the light of Her Majesty's reign is beginning to dim more and more as the days pass by. You, at this point, are well aware of the rotting rats that scurry along these celebrated walls of patriot and partisan alike, wishing to spread vicious diseases of distrust and rumor, of those glutted pigs and bloated cocks swearing royalty in blue blood, making lofty thrones for themselves in extravagance, experiencing all the five sins of sensory, be it morally sickening or self-satisfying, and I pray you are keeping safe._

_If you believe I have forsaken you for the following written, I will present you my head for you to sever yourself, but I plea with my Lady to lend a brief glance, for just a few moments, on this wretched paper._

_Forgive me, but a most tragic occurrence has reached my ears_ ―

She found she could write no more, cursing the wretched ink staining her fingers, cursing that quick-mouthed whore, the King, and everything beneath the sky, responsible or not, for Mana's state. She could not bear to think of it, hoping she was perhaps still delusioned by drink.

―Mana, poor Mana, dead? Sunken to the bottom of the ocean, forgotten about? Innocent, sweet-intentioned girl, exiled and scorned for her love, so trusting of her― Her little hand, shaking from the icy midnight winds, a ragged shawl over her head, bidding her to say farewell to the Queen in her stead, her eyes so full of gratitude―

She had prayed to see unrivaled freedom in another country, and instead, her grave was made beneath the unforgiving stars! Just little girls, just two young children of same sex, damned to suffer short lives of loneliness! Crossed by the very stars, ostracized by their kingdoms and countries!

What weak, fragile existences they led! One devoured in the arms of brine-and-salt maidens, another to be seared by the flames of revolution! Dominique was shaken and horrified, once again struck by the delicacy of her precious few loves.

Everything she touched turned to dust; was there anything, anything at all, worth cherishing?

* * *

A week had passed, the letter had gone unsent. Dominique had taken to burying her guilt by throwing herself into any idle activity that would occupy her attention with blind single-mindedness, though mostly by one-sided matches with cards and drinking with increasing heaviness in the evenings, a fine web of cracks beginning to show in her reserved exterior. Time, being the cruel mistress it was, marched on. Her soldiers were getting restless and tired of hiding from shadows and ducking at the sound of bullets, but there was little they could do to exercise their frustrations than follow their leader's example, and dine and consume wastefully. Dominique reprimanded them, but her icy fury had been dampened by grief, and they paid little attention to her at all until the morning attendance was taken, when they grudgingly checked in, angry at their freedom being purloined by her intrusion.

No one took off their caps, and barely any formed even the laziest of two-fingered salutes, but she had known for a long time that she was despised. She, too, gave scarcely more than a nod in confirmation, half-heartedly assuring herself that her men were still willing to turn up when requested, and thus their loyalty must not have been as wavering as she had thought―but that was a foolish, stupid thought, one which she would later see for herself, was all too false.

There was war in the frontlines and the long distance of families and lovers on the side, but thankfully, nothing devastating enough had yet occurred to incite a definite, deliberate act of utter defiance. At least, so it remained for a long time, but fortune was a fickle lover, at once seductive and alluring, and yet, with one fell strike, able to strip a soldier of all their standing. Those who depended on luck and chance to shield their hearts were no more wiser than children, as she had previously chided her subordinates for doing so before, and yet, she too would fall prey to that same trap.

During her time of weakness, bedridden and barely able to move, her platoon had undoubtedly thought her insistence on bathing and changing in solitude as mere arrogance, never imagining for a moment that there might have been another, much more crucial reason. However, now she had no need to settle for simple sponge baths, once again blessed with full mobility, and with the availability of a tub and hot water at the inn. The door unfortunately lacked a lock, though, so she had waited until the witching hour before sneaking off to her destination, quietly and cautiously. Once there, she methodically unbuttoned her slacks and slid them down her long legs, followed by nimble fingers pulling off her heavy overcoat and the thin undershirt beneath. Silhouetted against the candlelight, it was clear to see, even from the back, she was too slender to be a man, too beautiful. Her breasts were just hints of cream-smooth curves, definite, but like buds yet to bloom, as if never having properly developed beyond childhood. Her hands, despite their calluses, possessed the delicate bones of a girl. And her face, of course, was far too androgynous to be either deliberately masculine or overly feminine, in a perplexing, yet alluring way.

Her short, pale blonde hair clung to the nape of her neck as she sunk deeply into the glossy water, wafts of steam enveloping her, but she hadn't come to relax. Taking a chunk of ivory soap, she scrubbed ruthlessly at her skin, relishing the warmth but having little time to savor it, dark eyes continuously glancing at the door. She doused out the last of the suds on her arms and shoulders before lifting herself out and remained poised at the edge of the clawfoot tub, this time focusing on her stomach and legs, with all the tenderness of thorns.

However, the summery comfort of the heated air abruptly turned to winter at the sound of the brass handle turning. Acrid bile rose in her throat and threatened to smother her, heart slamming hard against her ribs, her dinner turning to ash in her stomach as the wooden door swung open. For once, the proud Dominique Knight was at a complete loss of words at the sight of her subordinate, whose shock was equal to hers, mouth pulled down into a faint frown, his hand remaining held in the air, curled into a half-fist, his blue eyes first looking as cold and dead as the tombs, before loathing and fury blazed in them moments later, jerking the rest of him to life as he took one deep step inside, yanking the door shut.

And Dominique, nude and unarmed, for the first time felt a trill of fear brush through her, from the gooseflesh at her throat to the momentary buckle of her knees. She forced herself to pull her damp feet from the tub however and stand tall, not bothering with a towel for modesty, she would not hide from him like a sniveling coward. She was still a soldier.

But a knee driving hard into her stomach swiftly cut short her threads of dignity, wrenching the breath from her body as she gasped with a sick croak, darkness blotting at her vision for a brief moment as she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. Strong hands grabbed at her from behind, before settling beneath her breast, where the previous break had just recently healed. Her breath hitched as she snarled an order for him to release her, but he paid it no mind as nimble fingers found the fissure of bone where it was slightly uneven―and pressed. It was like a bullet had burrowed into her; Dominique couldn't hold back a cry at the flares of agony and viciously sent her elbow into his side; a glancing blow, but enough to get him to loosen his hold.

"I am―your superior!" While truly and fully enraged, she was still too winded to risk running, lest she slip and sustain a blow to the skull. "You obey _me_ , you worthless scoundrel!"

But he had little mind for words, as the next instant, she was sprawled onto the floor, her back having landed hard against the damp ground, a furious, bloodied throbbing at her cheek where he had struck her.

"You conniving, arrogant little _bitch_ ―" He hissed, standing above her as if a cruel deity. "You've led me, you've led all of us, out into this hell hole―we've been stranded and abandoned, left to die on the battlefield―! Our graves may be here, but you're going to experience a different kind of torture before then!"

She had almost gotten to her knees before a thick boot slammed her shoulder down onto the slick floor once more, bits of broken tile and tender flesh crunched hard beneath it. But it was not Lionel's face, but Rhett's. Her vision spinning, head pounding as black bruises were sure to bloom across the vanilla expanse of skin like wildfire, she saw all six of the platoon had somehow arrived in the midst of their fight―she realized now that they must've been plotting some sort of mutiny, revenge, for ages before this―

They were bitter men, angry men, who found solace in women, cards, drink, and death, and it was her whom they planned to burn upon their pyre of fury. And as such, she felt equal, searing contempt towards them, as she tried to tear her shoulder free, biting her tongue until copper flooded the back of her throat, willing to break the bone if she must. She turned her head to cough out the blood before she suffocated, only to swallow it in disgust when a rough pair of lips was forced onto hers, and it was certainly not a sweet kiss, all teeth and tongue, ripping into the delicate flesh. She could not bite him in return either, her jaw being held with such force. She snarled in outrage, but went unheard in the clamor, as fists rained upon her like spears and swords, the thick straps of leather belts now used as makeshift ropes to restrain her arms and another forced beneath her teeth.

The torment continued, terror truly beginning to seize her now as she struggled as well as she could, before an unknown hand gripped the back to her head and smashed her face upon the tile. She felt an excruciating snap, and from her ruined nose blood thickly coated her cheeks like war paint, along with helpless tears of agony that she was powerless to halt or wipe away. But her guttural noises were drowned out at the jeers upon the reveal that her colonel's jacket had been made into a humiliating flag of surrender, which was looped around her neck like a vibrant, hell-hued noose.

Despite barely being able to see, despite barely being able to breathe through her shattered nose, she tried freeing her bound hands and kicked her legs wildly, refusing to be a pliant victim and wait for them to finish brutalizing her body quickly. It earned her another harsh slap with the metal of a buckle for her troubles, but she glared with the bloodthirst of a murderer in her eyes, despite the tears that poured from them.

However, it was a naïve and innocent thought to assume that they were quite finished with her yet. Dominique groaned lowly as hands, instead of curled into fists, touched her breasts, squeezing roughly, and drew blood along her ribs where their nails dug in deep. Her nipples were twisted until they were bruised an ugly map of puce, her legs taken by three hands each. Her head, defiantly held up in all of this, was now forced to watch Lionel's gloating gaze as an unknown amount of wriggling, writhing fingers forced her delicate petals to open. Her tongue cramped into the back of her throat, and it was only the gag between her teeth that stopped her urge to be sick; even closing her eyes did little difference, as it only enforced the imagery akin to maggots burrowing inside of her. Then, abruptly, she saw blurred, blood-drenched fingers finally pulling out―to be replaced by any number of those foul male instruments, Lionel in the front, an anonymous soldier in the back, and the thick, pungent odor of pale venom splashing upon her, a burning sea.

Anguish! Anguish, unlike anything she had ever felt! Even the pale-hot oblivion of her ribs breaking was a mere trifle compared to this; she would gladly shatter her bones into dust if it meant escape! Hours, days, weeks, for however long it went on, time was an ungraspable concept, there was only hatred and agony―

Her gag had been loosened; she spat out blood and the lingering taste of bitter tobacco, shaking violently, bathed in the gore of this visceral battle. The makeshift noose around her throat had tightened, darkness threatening to swallow her vision entirely.

Trembling, wheezing, sobbing, she could only heave for breath and protest hoarsely. The belt was again replaced, and the monstrous hunting party advanced on.

* * *

The sweet mercy of oblivion did not last―she awoke on the ruined floor of the inn; bare and aching, she hissed and winced at the mere action of trying to sit up, jostling her bruised shoulders, her muscles wrenched down to the bone with the tiniest of movements. Every breath she took was agony, from her burning, damaged throat to her fragile ribs, barely having escaped another breaking. Her nose, she would have to get a nursegirl to attend to at some point, but more striking was her face now resembling a mask of dried blood, and her body was still coated with remnants of the soldiers' pleasure.

She dipped a finger into the still bath water; it had gone ice-cold. Still, she wiped her face clean and would rid herself of the rest later. Finding her clothes in a heap, ripped and torn in places, but still in wearable condition, she yanked her slacks up, and forced her weary arms into the stained sleeves of her jacket and undershirt. Dread gripped her: there was no telling if she truly was alone, and she was currently without a revolver or sword. Still, her blood burned with fury, and she was not going to spend the rest of her life hiding in that room. As she traveled through the halls she kept to the shadows, walking an awkward gait, lacking speed but at least she still kept her silence. Finding her room, she discovered her possessions had been left mostly to themselves, save the small amount of currency she kept, which had gone missing. She took her personal revolver, hidden beneath the mattress, and tucked it in its familiar place, beneath her quick-beating heart. She would shoot them all, if she came to face them, not enough to kill but at least to incapacitate before reporting them for treason. But, when peering into other rooms―not so stupid as to burst in, but by peering through keyholes―she saw the traitors had vanished.

She clattered down the stairs, nearly stumbling in her haste, still unused to walking with her injuries, and practically snapped the neck of the poor girl at the front desk, trembling and frightened at the enraged guest.

"What do you mean, six men have checked out?" She snapped, giving her a hard shake.

The girl swallowed, desperately trying to avert her eyes from Dominique's patchwork of bruises, and failing. "They―they said that they had finished their business, and departed with their things. I didn't think to ask nothing of them."

"But you didn't ask of the _seventh?_ " She demanded. "One of their party don't leave with them, and you suspect nothing!"

But before she could inquire, the soldier had already turned away, disgusted and frustrated. Timidly, the girl called out after her, "If it helps, _monsieur_ , one requested a letter to be sent before leaving."

"A letter? Tell me its contents." She ordered, but the girl helplessly shook her head.

"I don't know, all he said was to make sure it reached Mondediolle's royal city. It's already been sent off."

"Don't spare me such a useless piece of information, it aids me little!" She retorted harshly, before retreating back to her room, mind racing. Suppose her true sex was revealed to the King? What would become not only of her, but of Anya? Alfons would surely find a way to connect the two, claiming yet another thing she had deceived him about! And what of her former subordinates? Would they be rewarded, promoted? Anya would not have an execution as long as His Majesty wanted to prevent total destruction of his country, that much was assured, but Dominique's own throat was exposed, and such savage beasts would have little qualms with hunting her down and bringing her head before the knife themselves, taking grim pleasure from the chase.

―No, she would never allow that. Her blood sang of malice, vengeance, and death. She wouldn't be satisfied until her hands were drenched with the same black blood they had glutted with her suffering and despair. They had enjoyed their play with matches, and now her wrath was aflame, sure to burn their arrogance to ashes, devouring everything it touched. She wanted streets to run red, heads on pikes, intestines as sashes of victory, and all the rest of the bloody, gruesome business!

She stripped off her torn clothes and used the scraps of cloth to feed a hearty fire, instead choosing to dress in full, formal military regalia, the crisp pants hiding the vivid scratches along her thighs, the simple undershirt concealing the yellowish, infectious-looking hue the bruises on her chest were beginning to take on. Her long arms disappeared up the silk-lined sleeves of her heavy, scarlet coat, the silver bucklings inside fastened neatly by nimble fingers. Finally, she adjusted her dark cap, the brim tugged low and casting a shadow over her eyes.

"You're going to regret not murdering me, because I will repay the favor a thousand times over!" She looked into the cracked, dusty mirror hanging above her cot, examined her reflection, and laughed lowly; the sound was enough to chill the decayed bones of reapers, silence the howling wendigo, send the sirens racing back to the inky depths of their broiling oceans.

The decadence of Dominique Knight had begun.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Revenge! Was there anything else she lived for now? Over time, the pale rose of Dominique's heart, forcibly blank since childhood, the colorful emotions restrained, wrapped, and tucked away in tight little chains, had withered and wilted away entirely, leaving a thorned, thick stem in its stead―only to now bloom again, hugely and brightly, thorns sharper than blades, velvet petals the hue of gore and viscera.

Vengeance! An all-consuming passion that enflamed and enraged the icy colonel, an ugly obsession that grew into a frenzy, a madness, and yet was hailed as glorious, a way of regaining honor, whether a duel through pistols or wits―but there was nothing charming about it. Whereas she had been aware every moment, excruciatingly slow, of the eight weeks of helplessness, time had vanished altogether for her. She would lie stiffly in a bath, uncaring that it had gone freezing―another day, she would bolt down her burning soup within moments, waiting for the letter from Rosette that would never come, for she had never informed her of her address―and still another dreary evening, she would dress in her finest, awaiting Anya to walk through the doors and be led out into the ballroom.

She would claim she was not insane, nor even disoriented, nor in denial―she was consumed by a plethora of emotions, unable to cope properly. Vicious fury, bone-deep anguish, and chilling fear, for herself and her beloved ones―the last most of all she was unaccustomed to, but it had steadily faded after the first week, in place of scalding hatred―her new, toughened dark heart still beat strongly within, seeping out a stronger poison with each pulse. Appetiteless and slumberless without the aid of drink, which was her ambrosia and honey, present at every meal and between hours, Dominique was a woman changed in her own skin, a serpent with dried fangs, lacking the raw flesh to sink into. But her mind was incessantly working and churning, restless―each word of her speech after that night of humiliation had been branded into her consciousness, and she was not about to let them die and scatter with the dust.

"Upon your sins, damn you!" She hissed, bloody crevices carved into her palms beneath the pale snow powdering her gloves. Spending her days seething and wreaking chaos upon her fantasies of viscera was one thing, but her solitary travels towards Caspilene, where they were undoubtedly headed, was a far rougher passage than envisioned.

Even in civilian guise, the threat of war was just a siren's song away from throwing her beneath the vicious clash of waves, the crackle of flames and steel taste of bullets in the air every step, in any kind of weather. She had stolen now, in addition to declaring revenge; with her funds vanished away, it had taken little effort to slide her hands into a woman's corset, and retrieve a hidden coin-purse in exchange for a single delight of an autumn kiss. Who had she become? A thief, a liar, a drunk―but it mattered little anymore, as long as she was no longer foolish prey. No, no longer was she to spill tears. It was time to think upon revenge, and thus, she allowed it to consume her, self-loathing taking root and spreading its gangrene upon every vital working. The golden medium was now the copper coffin.

It was a bitterly cold day like every other, long after Dominique had first set foot into enemy soil, into Anya's homeland, did she catch a flash of red, a scrap of scarlet out of the peripheral during a nighttime nursing at a drink-parlor. She scraped her chair back, breath catching in her throat, one hand already creeping for her pistol and blade, but at that point, they'd long vanished, and she was left questioning if it was not just a simple conjuration of her feverish mind.

But at least, she was no longer blind. She had direction, the winds were in her favor, the ground was no longer to serve as loamy trenches of despair, but as funeral ash of her fallen soldiers. Did they take her for a damned fool? Did they believe, that with a single cutting of her strings, a yanking of her feminine petals, that she would forever remain a barren stem of thorns? They would pay dearly for their assumptions.

The following day, after seeing the uniform for Mondediolle's royal military men, Dominique sent a letter. The letter arrived into the gloved hands of self-appointed Colonel Lionel during one bitter and begrudgeful day, the skies flavored of ichorous black salt and the very air gray as corpses of dreaming men clinging to their mermaid-sunken anchors, mistaken for crowns and sacks of slick coins and bloodied jewels. He was delighted, gloating over the King’s pleasure with his previous missive, and had naturally agreed to meet at a designated place in order to pick up more supplies in secret from a smuggler. He wore civilian clothes, though by no means modest: a dark and handsome leather coat in addition to a rather downplayed cream shirt, his pockets full of his ousted superior’s thieved savings.

Dominique, however, seemed to wear the night itself as her cloak, stars for buttons and the moon as a mask during her hidden waiting hours. Revenge was so sweet: anticipation was thick as buttercream, each second a rare and rich morsel like candy drops down her throat, soon to turn to ashes and embers, smoldering in the pit of her unsatisfied oven-hollow furnace-heart.

Pistol in hand, the crunch of sticks and shattered twigs was her cue for the masquerade to finally come to an end; scarlet hues of hell blotted her vision, such was her anger, upon seeing the traitor soldier's face once more. She remained still, straining poise against impatience until his shadow has passed; she raised her arm, club of silver clutched between swift fingers, and brought it down upon his skull.

* * *

Coils of browning rope secured Lionel's arms to the wooden back of a rickety chair, iron nails eaten by rust creaking beneath his weight, fingers knotted together behind him and hopelessly entangled, the cries of thousand dying insects seeming to echo through his head, tongue dry as dust, throat full of cobwebs, spiders trickling down his throat. A wad of dustcloth shoved into his mouth, forced between rows of teeth yellowed from malnourishment, his legs similarly tied, parted like the arrogant king on his throne, throat slit by his most loyal whore behind jasmine incense and silk curtains. But this was no seething summer garden, and there was no voluptuous bitch to beg at his bed _―_ only a demon, with virgin-aching sea-colored eyes shadowed beneath feminine lashes and the dark brim of the cap; truly a black-hearted and hollowed thing at that moment, and if the vengeance she craved was tied to such a burdensome anchor as morality, Dominique would gladly relieve herself of it.

She bore scars, while he bore glory, for freshly imprinted, still seared on the inside of his eyelids was a reel of freeze-frame stills from that glorious night. Six sets of limbs, tearing, tugging, ripping off the crisp ironed slacks, skinning the wild and mannerless creature of her scarlet pelt, cap, gloves, honorary medals and other unnecessities stolen for vast and golden trophy rooms, quilt beds and decapitated animal heads.

The pristine gloves shoved into the open mouth, gagged upon and gripped by ivory fangs in miniature. The vanilla expanse of skin exposed, the maddening and infuriating masculine disguise peeled back and pinned open. A new tribal face paint to mark their plunder, thick and cloudy pale fluid painted onto her flushed and damp cheeks, her short hair washed in this bitter bath, forced down her throat with the novel utensil of stiff flesh, six scepters of kinghood allotting her choked swallows of nourishment gladly rewarded, her ruffled foul mouth and barely warmed crevice both pried apart by brave hunters, admirable explorers of the unknown, who plundered in fervent search of sensitive pink meat and ensuing euphoria. The broken mare was forced on all four limbs, and at last, their shovels hit moist ground, treasure unearthed, much celebration ensuing in thick, rich bursts.

"Look at you now," She hissed, rage bubbling in her voice. "You, oh great and wealthy farmer, where are your potatoes and swine, your fresh sweet vegetables, your rich harvest of women?" A fire-forged bottle, drained of alcohol, was gripped tightly in her hand, and for all his smugness and confidence, now he felt little more than a child to be scolded by an enraged father, the glass as menacing as a whip or rod. He strained to breathe between the cloth, struggling, but the vicious bindings held steadfast, as if the very room _―_ darkened, furnitureless, some abandoned shack? _―_ was intent on strangling him.

"No," The word was like thunder, tearing through his flesh; he shuddered. "You have glutted yourself plenty―now, it is my turn to taste sweet ambrosia―your just desserts." She was in front of him, like some terrifying goddess of war and loathsome creature of death.

He could not lash out, could not even feel his familiar comfort of smug superiority or self-assured blindness; he felt afraid, and so very human, reverted back to boyhood when he squashed insects beneath his thumb and bludgeoned puppy-dogs with stones, but a single switch across his back was enough to put a stop to his adolescent cruelty. Yet Dominique held not a switch, but an entire branch; she was not his mother in humble apron and stained, withered hands, but instead spawned from the fearsome trench of his horrified nighttime imaginings.

In her hands, he was her doll, perhaps the kind she might've had as a girl, all hers to drive scissors into the sockets of button-eyes and snip off his clothing, tear into the cotton beneath like an animal―but this time, there would be gore and precious entrails, not fluff and stuffing. He could not breathe, and while she inexplicably kneeled, her hot puffs of breath on his skin felt like the furnaces of hell. She had tossed aside the bottle with the sound of shattering in the black abyss before him, and now wielded actual weapons: her sheathed sword, her pistol.

It was then Lionel realized he was nude, at least from the navel down, with only his tattered shirt preserving his pride as a man. In a fleeting corner of his mind, he smirked at the thought of this _woman_ on her knees between his legs, but such foolishness was banished at the reaffirmation of his utter helplessness, false laughter of bravado stifled at the touch of icy metal against his slick skin.

"A man who studies revenge keeps his own wounds green," She murmured, voice thick with revulsion. Strangely, there was no rapture in her expression, no ecstasy singing through her spirit, only a grim satisfaction, a sense of fulfillment of her duty, rather than a pastime of pleasure. And it was fitting; despite the ocean's sweet lures of indulgence without restraint, the anchor called morals felt no more a noose than the arm of a dearly missed lover. "But it is you who dug into the flesh first. I only cultivated the infection, in hopes of quick recovery."

Did she plan on chopping him at the root? Lionel was too paralyzed to move, fearing that the trigger might be pulled, or the blade would slice deeply if he struggled in earnest.

* * *

Dominique, however, did neither, her hand wavering. Tonight―after tonight, she could never bear to lay another hand on Rosette, nor anyone else ever again, whether in platonic comfort or searing with passion. Her hands would be bathed in blood, fingers soaked thick with marrow, her touch like a plague of corruption. Even if she was to be forgiven by those whom her inflictions upon were already forgotten, her soul would be tinted black, her morals crumbled into fine dust. And yet, she had _wanted_ this, become consumed by it, filled herself with such monstrous longing, how could she ever even _dare_ to dream, in her wildest of slumbers and deepest of wishes, of happiness beyond the glimmer of the guillotine blade and the scalding tides of gore?

"―I don't deserve it." The words escaped in a murmur, unbidden.

Joy was for spring-fresh young girls with adorable faces and bright-colored laces, girls who didn't think of revenge and never lusted for death, like she had. For soldiers who didn't drink and fondle girls and coins alike, like she did. For young child-queens who wanted home and the embrace of sisters, for common waifs who held hopes for luncheons with their companion.

Furthermore, it was impossible. Beyond the crunch of bones and the squelch of entrails beneath her feet, soaking hotly into her skin, what was there? She was an abandoner, a ruined soldier, a terrible attempt at a man, which was not what she desired, only freedom and praise from her uncle, grandfather, father, forever buried in his coffin. What had she done to deserve happiness? She had had a row with Anya, and despite mutual forgiveness, the reassurances, ultimately their ranks created a wall between them. And, _Rosette_ ―what kind of good-bye had _she_ received? Dominique had been so monstrous a creature to her, committed acts so disgusting, that she drowned herself to death twice a night in alcohol just to ease the sting! 

And what was she about to do now? The same thing she had threatened against both of them! Despite her love for them! Hideous acts, the same that had been foisted upon her, that she would never wish upon anyone! A demoness, she had become! She had become not the great soldier, nor the triumphant protector she had aspired to be, but a hell-borne woman.

He deserved it, he did! But was that equal to the stain of guilt she would bloody into the cloth of her skin and soul? She had indulged plenty, like an animal maddened, once free from Mondediolle's iron grip, having escaped in Pararnul. Drinking to ease the illness of her heart, pressing flesh to flesh, and savoring the exquisite agony of emotions for the first time, she was truly and fully experiencing the depths of despair.

Dominique would not have happiness, but she would have her vengeance. In her own destruction and salvation, in the darkest hour of hers, she did not have the strength to avoid her temptations, succumbing to her wicked imagination, her bloodiest desires. Still kneeling before Lionel, she held her sword in its sheath, the barrel of a pistol pressed against his temple with a firm hand, no longer warring between decisions. She moved the sword between his legs, its blunt tip pressing against one curve of his buttock.

* * *

Lionel refused to swoon like a woman, only grateful that she had yet to bare her blade against his skin, although the placement of it was troubling, mystifying him still. He choked out foul, guttural threats, muffled as they were, watching as his former superior met his gaze with glittering eyes. He would not show cowardice before her, he would not be the weak child his nightmares reduced him to! Yet, as the sword pressed further, invading his most sensitive parts, pressing and seeking entrance against his dark pucker, he stiffened and thrashed in his bindings, feeling a shiver of true terror.

And suddenly, terribly, he understood that her intentions were to defile him, as he had done to her. Although, lacking the most natural parts, she was forced to use a replacement, a sword firmer and thicker than any phallus. Since he was a man, he alternately lacked the self-slicking concoction, or any sort of grease or oil which would soothe the initial penetration. Dominique pushed again, determined to impale him on her sword, and Lionel wished dearly that he was still lost in blissful unconsciousness. He was being brutalized as if by an unforgiving beast, his resistant ring of muscle forced open, apart―

* * *

Dominique paid no mind to Lionel's first screams, nor to the blood coating the sheath of her sword as she forced the length of it further still inside, inch by inch. There, there! Finally, she had her victory, watching him writhe as she had dreamt of during the blackest nights, when her thighs still ached and her raw petals sluggishly bled. For how much Lionel paraded his masculinity, he wept with his eyes shut tight, yelling hoarsely until his voice was strained to a mere whisper, yet blushing as bright as a virgin bride. She took a severe pleasure in seeing him reduced to such a deplorable condition, prideless and conquered, her wild cock broken at last.

Why, it was as if she had stolen the very part which made him a man, and curiously―he had hung, soft and limp, between his quivering legs in the beginning, but with each advancing thrust, Lionel was growing stiff, the tip bare and weeping pale, the purplish foreskin pushed low, veins pulsing with blood. He almost seemed to be deriving some masochistic, twisted pleasure from his deflowering, to Dominique's outrage. No, it was her moment, her time of triumph! If he was not suffering well and truly, then the whole ordeal was futile!

"Look at me, boy." She ordered him, and obediently, he peered up at her with exhausted, tearful eyes. Twisting the sword, Lionel's shattered howl brought a bitter smile to her lips. Her tongue ran along her eye-teeth, pricking the sharp edges. "Remember that this is only a single fraction of what I've endured at your hands. Should I call upon your old companions, Orrick and the others, for them to help themselves as well?" 

In response, she received a frantic shaking of his head. Although the thought of having Lionel's own brothers-in-arms force themselves upon him was tempting, it was far from practical, and would regretfully have to be dismissed. Still, the plain horror the mere thought invoked in Lionel was satisfactory enough.

"Very well," She conceded, and resumed a vicious pace with her sword, the reeking odor of dark blood and feces beginning to foul the air. Her wrist was aching, her fingers clenched tight, and in an impulsive moment, she tore the cloth from his mouth, wanting to hear if Lionel had anything to say.

"Dominique― _please_." Lionel coughed, choking on bile, and the sound of her name on his lips shook her heart, numbing her very nerves. She had not been expecting him to beg, without jeers or cruelty, only the humility of a violated man. Abruptly, she could bear no more, wrenching her sword from his wounded hole, letting it clatter to the floor. Her blade was filthy, the putrid smell intensifying, her skin coated with stale sweat. She turned to leave, before her stomach rebelled and she was sick all over herself.

She glanced back at the man struggling against the rope, and in that moment, all she saw was Rosette, sobbing and shivering.

* * *

Far off, in the devastated Beauholm, Rosette received word that the traitor colonel, Dominique, had died on the battlefield. She wept bitterly, begging forgiveness, and could not stop, even at the offer of bread.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Winter had crept up like a smothering cloth upon the royal city of Mondediolle, though now perhaps it could be called the remnants of the royal city, over half the shops unoccupied by any life, scattered with glass and emptied of wares, the streets blackened with ashes from the past few months' worth of scuffles and riot over bread; the rich man may have drank for pleasure, but the poor man drank for amnesic ambrosia, the common people rallying up, stringing up aristocrats whenever they chanced upon an unlucky carriage careening through the streets, intending attendance to an opera―while it was not an opera they found, they certainly attended a most sensational gathering of human suffering and misery, and though their impudent audience threw heads instead of roses towards their actresses and actors with cream-fresh faces and perfumed throats, it was one performance which was always guaranteed many encores! Iron barrelfulls of rain had long begun turning to thick layers of snow, nests full of fledging crows were frozen to the branches, and everywhere thicker coats and heavier petticoats were worn, though for the intelligent blue blood, it would be more for the intents of concealing a dagger or pistol. The higher the aristocrat, the greater the risk of their carriage-ride leading to hell, and of course, the Sapphist Whore was no exception. For weeks at a time, she willingly confined herself to her husband's palace, while during other evenings, she organized rides to the border, flanked by guards―though whether for herself or the common, loyalties like that were blurred.

That day, the arduous ritual began as usual: Anya awoke in an emptied bed, then taking to her vanity, where she was refreshed with a damp cloth by a slate-faced servant. Afterwards, she was dressed summarily, a girl for each layer, one for bloomers, another for the corset, petticoat, and so on. At which point, she adjourned the bedroom for breakfast, attended by no audience. The rest of the hours were to be hers alone, punctuated only by a few more lavish meals before it was back to bed, once more. And here, halfway between the soup and salads, Anya brooded, thrust deep into a tangled jungle of thoughts. Despite her grand speech to Mana, she had spent the following days afterwards helpless and mourning, literally a prisoner to her own room. The common revolt and her final night with Dominique was the key, it seemed, to unlock her prison, she had been granted free movement to a mild extent some time afterwards, yet―servants were fickle as time and nature itself; she had little hope of setting her grand rebellious stage, with little idea of how to use a sword, and with death inked at her throat for all to pursue. She loathed this inactivity! She loathed herself much more for allowing such cowardice―soldiers were risking their lives, her home country was in turmoil, and she had done naught!

"Fear has lead to timidness," She said bitterly, laying down her silver. "These spring months, summer months, autumn months, winter months of stillness are but gauzy curtains I can tear through at any time, if I held the lion heart I so very much value in others―but I fear the beasts that would gore me without such protection! I had come to Mondediolle, ignorant and wool-headed as a infant lamb, and over time, I thought I had grown to know better!

I want home, I say! I want my sister, I want family, I want freedom! It's this willing drowning in desire that nearly has brought everyone I cherish down with me! I must cast off my wishes, and seek to extend these hands from my eyes, towards the cuffs of those who have traveled by my side, who now are precariously balanced on fate's careening wheel! But―damn this reluctance of mine!"

Hesitant little knocks skittered across the wood of the door like mice, interrupting Anya's enflamed resolve.

"A letter has arrived, Your Highness," Came the muffled reply, and the pale slip was tucked beneath the door. A flurry of footsteps then followed, before the little Queen had time to dismiss her. Gingerly retrieving the paper, she smoothed it out, mumbling the contents aloud to herself.

_His Royal Highness,_

_I mean not to question your good judgement and finest rationality, however, it has come to my quickest attention of a serpent at Mondediolle's throat, whose scales are slick with the venom of those who ravage our good and just society, in favor of the Casp. Mademoiselle de Despicable; and to say it plainly, I am referencing your highest officer, Dominique Knight_ ― _who has been discovered to be in utmost conspiracy with the Caspilene child, and her lesbian consorts._

 _Yes, I say lesbian! Knight is not only guilty of betrayal for soiling the sheets of royalty, but in addition to the crimes of concealing her honest gender! However, her long list of traitorments end not there, for Knight also had attempted to cross her sword with my lifeblood upon my discovery. I rightfully defended myself from her, as was necessary―but it was not by my hand she perished, but while trying to flee from an enemy attack, while we brave six strode onwards into canons! We shall, as duty-bound, continue our onslaught into dark territory_ ― _simply know that there are other eyes being idle, hands snapping for your throne._

Anya tore the letter into shreds, stamping the remains beneath her feet. Death? Death of dear Dominique? Inconceivable! Unthinkable!

"Swines and other such beasts, indeed! I fear I have fallen into the very trap you warned me of―reduced to an ornament of the throne! I shall not believe such wretched words, until within these hands I cradle your corpse! Only when breath takes leave of my body, shall you truly be buried and gone―! At last, in this epiphanatic moment, I can summon the courage I've so admired! Dearest friend, beloved―wait, and I will come!"

She tore up to her room, stripping herself of her heavy gown, her frills and fancies, pearls and diamonds, with her own hands, and with each layer falling from her frame, she felt as if there was thick iron armor encasing her heart, instead donning an extremely plain gown with no finery whatsoever. Next, she took a small knife to her beloved locks, until a carpet of dark-brown laid upon the floor, shearing until it was obscenely short for a girl.

Traversing to the kitchen, she was greeted by outraged cries of shock from the servants, hastily giving bows and curtsies. "You Majesty, this―a new fashion―?" "Your Highness―what is the meaning behind such actions―" "My word, my Queen―" "My Lady―" She opened an emptied flour sack, stuffing inside but a few loaves of bread and fruits, holding it shut with one hand.

But she only spoke once, and it was no explanation, instead only yielding more questions. "Fetch me the sharpest sword and fastest horse!"

Guards dropped to their knees before her as she went out into the courtyard, bewildered at the sight of the young girl in simple clothing, short-haired, bearing a sack, a sword, and leading their finest steed.

She mounted him, the child-royalty no longer that of a child at all. The dress she wore was of blue and black; the colors of her home. The sea-blue of her eyes was roiling.

"Behold the deficit!" Came the rising cries, outside the palace walls.

"No― _behold the Magnificent!_ " Anya barked back in return. "And behold all, victims and soldiers, the murderers and the hungry! Instruments of terror, I bow before you no longer! Damn your prisons of gold and finery, curse the cold, unforgiving streets of deprived cities! Ravaged by occult and suspicions, hate and greed!

For what have I done, but be of different origin? What am I guilty of, what have I sinned? I know my sins, of greed borne of out terrifying loneliness―but never have I inflicted anything of such great outrageousness upon the mass of my people, and certainly not to the degree I have been accused of! I am loathed for my atrocities―? Then, no more! I will end all the atrocities of Anyaliavich Belovarezhnaya! Then, be satisfied at last!

Willfully, I hereby relinquish the title, Queen of Mondediolle! From now on, I claim a new title of my own―as a servant of the people, who believe I have wronged them to the lowest betrayal, no longer a towering figure of terror and destitution! Even as these streets are awash with guillotine-spilt blood, I stand, facing not towards war, but an era of peace! If you still take arms, aim your rifles, blades, and nooses at me, do as you must, but spare the innocent kingdoms, of _all_ countries from the rest of war's devouring flame! I am no longer afraid―I choose to be of neither Caspilene nor Mondediolle, for I wish to unite them, rather than further the division―and thus, I am plainly Anyaliavich, and while my soul is untempered and free of royal chains, I cannot feel at ease, until deliverance is had!

Dominique―pray for me, for my heart is enclosed to you, and all of Europe!"

With the thunder-clap of hooves, Anya vanished down the snow-slick roads, in pursuit of her scarlet-clothed Knight. Shots rang out after her; stones were thrown; the shouts for bread and blood reached a crescendo.

* * *

To Rosette, there must have been a world―a floral-scented scenario, yes, of monochrome dreams drenched in vibrancy, of full stomachs and plush feather beds, velvetine bread and silk butter on every plate, every night, for every child, noble or poor, where she would be the one wrapped in corset, bustle, and petticoat after petticoat―yes, surely a fine place might have existed―only in her dreams, mere childish imaginings! But wealth and engagements meant nothing to her, she would gladly cling to the humble pot of soup and bundle of grain, if only―

She had the heart of a noble nestled in common blood; she dreamed of things beyond her station, cried, demanded, and finally, forcefully attempted to claim whatever prize she had deemed worthy for herself. What a little fool, what a cat, what a demon she had been, how she had _acted_! If there was truly a life where a certain D―henceforth Dominiticus―and a disheveled R―Rosecine―were to live together under a common roof, even perhaps wedded, _that_ , she would desire. But there was no Dominiticus or any such Rosecine; she was plain Rosette, an infatuated idiot, and he was Dominique, whom she had wronged so very much. It had all been shattered by her hand. Such stupidity! And now, the colonel was dead, the Queen missing, the kingdom crumbling! Despite the tragedy, her heart clung to ragged hopes, prayers and pleas, that perchance, perhaps, the soldier would still return.

After that night, she lived on, despite her repulsion with herself once sense had returned to her, tempted to swallow poison to pay for her misdeeds but managing nonetheless to rouse herself into a shadow of her former life. She refused to watch the aristocrats being strung up and slaughtered, had even snatched herself a pistol for protection, though occasionally she was tempted to point it at her own breast. She had heard, of frail-hearted girls who could no longer stand the bloodshed and flames, who had thrown themselves into the black depths of the river, their drowned corpses encased in ice coffins, or unhappy brides-to-be so desperate that they held themselves beneath the water of their tubs, or children so frightened that they refused to take any food into their stomachs. But she refused to become one more sorrowful story to exchange over meals―she had no choice but to live, to harbor a dangerous love which festered within her, and redeem herself by any means.

She would be happy to follow him as a servant, for he was the first to show kindness to her, despite their differences; to be his lover was a wild dream, she knew. But if she had just a simple smile, even a drop of forgiveness, that would be bliss. Just a glimpse, just a word, just a breath from his lips, to know he still lived. She had seen his vicious and dark temperance, and yet still desired him―however, nor was she was an obedient doll; she had wronged him, but it still stood that if he wronged her, she would also rightfully require redemption. And had he not wronged her, by his advances at her confession, his threats to take her? Yes, that was swift vengeance for him, and beyond nightmarish for her―never had she thought it would spiral into such catastrophe, though that was her own naïvety at blame. Though she wanted to be by his side, nightmares of rape mingled with tender love-making chilled her to the bone, tore her asunder with confusion. She too had forgiveness to do; and slowly, her silly fancies of blind love was becoming tainted, her fondness mellowed by guilt and fear, forged by the revolution rising up all around her. 

Far from a girl, Rosette was becoming a young woman. But she felt like a child, still so foolish and unsteady.

"Bullets, Ivan?"

"Finest in Mondediolle," The urchin said with a touch of pride, looking filthier than ever: his blonde hair was dark with debris, his clothes soot-black and his hands no better. He walked with a limp, relying on a battered cane for aid. "I was gon'a use 'em, along wiv what gun I snitched you, when stoppin' the execution of the Queen's lover. Imagine my surprise when there was no such thing! A huge crowd at that, turned in'er a riot almost, I got trampled a bit, as you can see." He shook his lame foot, hand still thrust out with a dozen metal pieces for her to take. "Now take it, please! I've no use for it, 'less you wanna help me break out poor Robin an' Henri from that prison-y mansion they're trapped in!"

"Especially Robin," She hummed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips as the boy flushed brightly, ever so shy at the thought of his crush. "But no, I cannot! You need to protection much more than me; at least I have a roof over my head."

"Exactly my point! Others are gonna be eager to steal from ya; the poorest of the poor fight amongst themselves as if they were aristocrats, the way they go for the throats! I'm beggin' ya." His bright grin was infectious; Rosette found her hand curling around her little presents, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him.

"Then, at least come in for a while. I can at least fix you supper." She said softly, ushering him into her home to warm his discolored feet. A bundle of slightly-rotten meat was cooking over the hearth, and she began setting the table for three.

"Expectin' someone?" He asked, happily curling his stiff toes as he helped himself to a chair and feasted on a chunk of roast.

"Pardon?" Her hand wavered as she laid down the final set of bent silverware.

"A third." He explained between huge mouthfuls. "You've set for a third. Got a young man, eh, fightin' for his own piece of tha royal city? Either way, they've chanced worse―the damn dogs of th' Queen were vicious, 'm glad they were sent off! You know 'bout 'em? Dead, I's heard! All of them, laid out lik toys before cannons! Or, coulda be...You've got no young man, then?"

Rosette did not respond, settling for straightening her apron as a long silence followed. Ivan, wary of her silence, went on in a hesitant tone, "Shame, that, real shame, nice girl like you. G-got a few friends down at the seaside, they'd be gratified to pay you a visit―"

Quite forcefully, she slammed a chipped plate down in front of him: several thick slices of meat, a whole boiled onion, and half of a loaf of stale bread. She began speaking, in a low and rapid tone, "Here, then. Eat. Eat! Take my bread, my meat, my spice and desserts, my money, my dresses, my flesh, even my lifeblood! Just pray you, good sir, to shut your mouth! I beg you for silence, just stuff your mouth with food!"

He was shaken by her snapping, swallowing his choking mouthful. "R-Rosette? I don' mean no harm, _mademoiselle_ ―"

"Eat!" She repeated the word like a curse, seeing the boy flinch and hurry to shove the onion partially into his mouth. He could tell the tears in her eyes were not from slicing the stinging vegetable.

She turned away, trembling as she collapsed upon the floor; there was the scrape of the chair as Ivan leapt up. Rosette wept, "Oh please, forgive me! My arrogance, my presumptuousness! For forcing thorns upon you, in an attempt to nourish the sweet, fresh bloom of love, forgive me!"

"N-nothing to forgive ya for! Honestly, nothin'! T'was I who 'as wrong, blatherin'―'m awful sorry, please, no more cryin' now!" He blustered on, trying to help her into a seat, mistakenly thinking she was speaking of him.

She dissolved into tears, in mourning and terror of the future, of what might have befallen the colonel―and her terror of the colonel himself.

* * *

Dominique reached the royal palace of Caspilene at daybreak. Despite the early dawn hours, the sky was black with smoke and rent with screams; the gates had been stormed by their own people, the gore and viscera of royal guards creating a pungent carpet of fresh blood beneath boots. Dressed in civilian clothes as she was, she was grateful that she was not in uniform, the eyeless sockets of aristocrats on pikes causing a surge of nausea and horror to lance through her―it was just as―no, far worse than the brief interruption of Anya's palace. And here, this was where the child-royalty had grown up, and been nourished and cherished and known love; her _family_ was here. Here! It was here that Anya had once slept, ate, bathed, played! To see it so utterly defiled disgusted her; the stink of seared and blackened flesh nearly forced her to empty her stomach as her stumbled through the thick crowd of rebelliots, vision blurred and flickering, but not so delirious so as to lose her purpose. Pistol in her icy hand, she peeled off her glove and threw it aside to better grip it.

Anya's sister was here, and it was by her hands that she had to capture her, upon the King's orders. Capture, but not torture, nor harm, as Lionel would've done. To end the war!

"Clear way! Clear a way! Hold fire! Cease battle!" She shouted, authority booming her voice, confidence running through her blood. This was her chance for the start of redemption! The colonel was back in all her glory, and for the first time in a long time, she felt strong. She went through kitchens, burst into the throne room, the enormous dining hall, crystal and china shattering beneath her frantic strides, limbs and strings of intestines lined the walls, in a kind of grotesque bragging of their hunt―she caught a glimpse of a beautiful girl held down and violated by the knife handle of a gloating kitchenmaid, her long, golden hair yanked from the roots in a vicious handful, yowling like an animal, summer-blue eyes wild. But with a regretful glance, she hurried on; she had no time for mercies for everyone, flames consuming the uppermost tower and steadily devouring downwards. Anya parents? Probably long dead, seduced by the guillotine in exchange for information, riches, their daughter―

She burst into the personal chambers: a plush bed draped in thick gold tapestry curtains, a large wooden wardrobe, both scored with scratches and fabrics torn to scraps. Panic stabbed through her chest, the air freezing in her throat as she saw the open window; but there was no body below, no lumps in the sheets either, no girl in the closet. She dropped to her knees to crouch beneath the bed; she heard a faint whimper and sharp indrawn breath as dark eyes peered into the darkness.

There, huddled against the farthest corner, wrapped in cobwebs, face smeared with dust, was the curled, terrified, trembling figure of Anya's beloved older sister. She cried out at the hand reaching towards her, slapping it off, shutting her eyes tightly; Dominique took no heed and snatched the hem of her skirt.

"You'll suffocate if you stay!" She snapped, this time grabbing hold of a slender ankle and wrenching it towards her; she didn't have the time for this! "I won't hurt you, I just―"

"You just want to take me back!" Came the choked reply, her Mondediollene tinged with the harsh Caspilenese accent. Her face was fully revealed as she was pulled out from beneath: she had the same eyes, same hue, but much more timid; the same long, thick, dark-brown hair. She could not help but be startled at the resemblance, her grip slackening. "And I deserve it! I wanted to do anything for Anyali―anything to be with her, even if she loathes me! I never intended, this―deaths, such horrific scenes―just a skirmish, I thought, to weaken borders! And now you see, what a fool I was!"

Dominque forced her heart to steady, unmoved by her tender tears. "Come with me." She ordered, the shadows of Anya in her still unsettling, only to quickly take her wrist and squeeze tightly, so that she felt the creak of bones.

"I'd rather you leave me with the smoke!" Alda's reward for that outburst was a flaming badge across one cheek, the soldier forcing her to stand as she rocked back on her heels, trying to drag her back down.

" _Come with me!_ I'll keep you safe until we reach the palace!" Dominique repeated, yanking her along towards the door.

"I'm to be a spectacle, then, before the royalties?" Alda asked timidly. "Am I to die, then, as an animal put on display? As the enemy? But not before Anyali, please; I can't bear to have her see my death! All I wanted was her happiness, never misfortune!"

After a pause to work open the door, Dominique spoke firmly, but not harshly. "I don't know your fate for certain. But if you come with me, I will take you to your sister."

After that, Alda's struggles ceased. Slowly, Dominique's grip loosened a fraction, and the girl slid her hand into hers. "If you take me to her, then that, I will gladly die for."

Her gaze was unflinching, the sea within her eyes violent and dark, and Dominique knew her conviction was true.

Leading her down the stairs in a blur of steps, frigid air washed over them as they managed to pass through the dismantled gates, never once exchanging names, or even another word between them. With tears in her eyes, the princess had just enough time to witness the flames wholly consume the regal structure of her home. Without time to offer a prayer towards those perished, they slunk within the shadows and easily procured a rampant horse in the chaos, the two women hastily mounting it, riding as fast as pounding hooves and desperate hearts would take them. It appeared all was well, they had managed to escape soundlessly and unhurt, before―

_Bang!_

The crack of a gunshot tore through the air, the reek of gunpowder and ashes her only warning before a ripple of blazing anguish tore through her arm, weakening her grip; with a cry, she whipped the reigns, urging her stallion to hurry, the thunder-noise of hooves unable to drown out the sensation of a river of dark blood pouring from her damaged wrist, dampness from her wound splattering down the length of her side, the flank of her horse, onto Alda's trembling hands fastened tightly around her waist. Darkness and loathing swum at the edges of her vision, low gasps of agony barely held back before they turned to screams.

"No, release me, cruel man!" Alda begged her, completely forgetting Mondediollene and instead reverting back to her natural, guttural Caspilenese tongue in the crisis. But her pleas fell upon deaf ears, her fingers slipping; exhaustion and smoke had taken their toll on Dominique, barely having the strength to look over her shoulder, into her eyes.

And she fell into that sea, succumbing to oblivion entirely, where the bliss of sweet relief finally claimed her.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Dominique drowsily awoke to the comforting scent of roses; the threads of thought beginning to stir and hazy memories piecing themselves together as she summoned up the energy to open her eyes, vibrant colors and soft evening light glimpsed through her lashes. She was not on the ground, where she last remembered colliding, nor the palace, the barracks, or her various rooms at a multitude of inns.

Instead, she was lying on something dreamily soft and warm; and she would've dismissed it as nothing but a sweet dream, if not for the pain in her injured arm. But most bizarre of all was not the bedding, nor the pleasant silence, but the sights that greeted her once she opened her eyes further, only to narrow them in confusion, throat feeling too hoarse to dare speak. The rickety table, the blackened floor; she knew this place: the home of sweet Rosette. But the girl by her side was _not_ Rosette, not at all, and that was what befuddled her the most, taking two slow blinks to properly register Anya's face.

"W-why...?" She rasped, the word barely scraping out of her raw throat. It was Anya, but she was different. The months away at war had weakened her mental image of her; although still regal and fiery, she was full of tenderness and joy, eyes swimming with overjoyed tears, a trembling smile upon her lips. Furthermore, her hair was cut short; strange, but not unpleasant.

The girl's fingers were gently slipped between her own. "...Dominique." She replied, quietly, and seemed to give a little laugh in pure relief. "You have lied to me of your true gender. For that, I begrudge you nothing. You have fought for me, sustained injuries for me. For that, I will nurse you until you are well. You have continued to live on, strong and loyal, when I heard news of your death. For that, you have granted me eternal happiness. You have returned my wonderful sister to me. For that, I thank you a thousand times over, until all the breath leaves my body to express gratitude with. And, you have done so much for me, ever since we first met, you have remained by my side. For that, I love you."

"...My Lady...I..." She could only murmur, struggling to rise. Anya gently took her shoulder, and laid her down.

"Please, rest, and call me by that no more. I am no longer queen of anything; I relinquished my throne in exchange for free reign, in order to find you. And, by God! I have never tasted such lovely freedom!" She patted her hand; the soldier's gaze slowly drifted to it, she could see it had been caringly wrapped. "...Ah, _Mademoiselle_ Rosette is the one who tended to your wounds. We both helped to change you together."

"...Such a kind girl. Almost too kind." She muttered.

"She is, quite lovely indeed. She did most the work in bathing you. All the debris on your clothes, the soot on your skin; it must've been horrific to endure. But you no longer have to endure. You must tell me― _tell me_ if something hurts, if you anguish, if you suffer! I swear, I will support you.

Of course, you don't have to accept my feelings. That was what led to the undoing of Mana and I; I selfishly forced my needs for companionship onto her without asking how she felt, and she naturally mistook it for more than gratitude, beyond mere friendship." She paused for a breath, fixing her with a serious, level gaze. "But, believe me when I say this: the only person I've ever felt that way towards, Dominique, is you."

 _Mana._ The name ripped an arrow through her heart, and she winced. "Anya...Mana is..."

"―I read the paper; I know of the Miranda sinking." She said quietly. " _Mademoiselle_ Rosette has quite a few papers stashed to feed the fire, and I...I heard of it then. Of course, I miss her, I adore her, I suffer through guilt; I don't dare disrespect her memory otherwise. But bliss is equal to my sorrows today. It is not whole, but my family is here. It may be fractured and damaged, but a great many of those whom I love have gathered here." She gave her a queasy-looking attempt at a reassuring expression, reaching up to wipe her damp eyes with her sleeve.

"You have never been weak, Dominique. Being the best man you could, being a perfect soldier, locking your emotions away―those things you thought you needed to be, all illusions. I don't expect them from you. And anyone who does, they are equally ridiculous."

Dominique found herself at an astounding loss for words at all this, only managing a steady rhythm of shallow breathing. "Enough. No more." She lifted her good hand and gently stroked the curve of Anya's cheek. "Loyalty-bound, I have always stayed by your side. I even loved you once, with the intentions of a suitor, but my lowly station forced my distance." There was swift lapse as she drew in her next breath. "However―my loyalties of the heart have changed."

The soft creak of a door caused the words to choke in her throat. Dominique's gaze flickered to it, before focusing back on her. "I beg you not to feel offended, Anya, but I believe another wishes for my time."

Nodding, Anya rose to her feet and swiftly took her leave, but not without a lingering smile. Just as she left, another walked closer, the door clicking shut. The timid orphan: patched and frayed dress, milk-pale skin, watering eyes the hue of chocolate, dark-gold hair tied back with a ribbon.

"―Rosette, I apologize." Dominique said firmly, before she could speak. "You have always felt unworthy regarding Anya, that I always liked her over you, that you were somehow worse than her, worth less than her. And that was why you felt you had no other alternative, why you were so desperate to keep me to yourself. I'm sorry to have disappointed you; for all the times we met, I've never wholly devoted myself to you. My rank, my foolish pride―they were in the way.

I do not ask if you can hold your heart to me still, given how cruel, how horrible I was to you―I can understand if you were to just leave me on the streets, and instead you take me in, dress me, aid me―and not just myself, but the former Queen, and her enemy sister at that! I don't know―how to express my thanks to you."

"―She's right." Rosette spoke brokenly; it was clear she was sobbing as she fell to her knees beside her. "It was blind of me to expect everything from you, to put all of my hopes in you! I-I love you, Dominique, but―I admit, I saw another in you. I once had a brother. So supportive and strong; my Leander. He took care of me after our parents died. But I was just a child back then, hungry and undernourished―he gave all his food to me, and I unthinkingly devoured it. In the end, it was I who stole his life by taking the very food he worked for from his own mouth! And I saw you, and I wanted you to be him. I never wanted to be alone again.

And despite my love―I'm still afraid! I have nightmares, silly things, stupid, really―even though I know you'll never attempt it again, even though I brought it upon myself, for I've done wrong against you as well―but the wounds you inflicted will take some time to heal. Not today, not tomorrow; maybe in months, or years, we can be equals, with no fear or guilt or complications between us. If we ever see each other again, I expect you will need to flee the country, once the King sees you've lied―"

"If? Rosette, you don't expect me to cast you aside, do you? I promised my summer villa for you to make home in at any time, did I not? You may take residence there, anytime you like. As soon as the war is over, even the very day. I won't visit if you wish, if you feel so intimidated. But this way, we shall be together, as equals. You will not be left alone."

Her tears not yet dry on her soaked face, she gave her a shy little smile, cheeks as bright as peppermint. However, her bright expression faded at her next admission. "As for, your hand...I'm afraid, it will never be the same." She admitted gently. "It undoubtedly feels very stiff, yes? The doctor I brought in said it would...well, you will never regain full movement in that hand again. I'm sorry, I don't believe...you will ever return to the military. I know you loved it so, I know it was your passion―"

Dominique lowered her head in quiet grief. "I don't think, I would return anyway. Even if I did hide my gender again in a different country, even if I achieved an even higher rank, I don't want to be just what my grandfather wanted me to be. I love being a solider because I love protecting others, but I don't need to lie to myself to do that." She sighed, and then continued in a lighter tone, "Or perhaps, I'll have a career as the first fe-male officer. An officer who can love and laugh and know happiness, with no hiding, no pretending. I am worth something, just as myself. I can teach myself in my left hand as well; all isn't lost."

"―It rarely is." Rosette replied, and then piped up, after a moment of hesitation. "...I, made some hot tea for you, if you don't mind..."

Dominique graced her with a faint smile. "―I'd love to have some."

* * *

The two sisters wept as they embraced, cries of gratitude and sobs of joy as fingers sought out familiar faces, as if to affirm the softness of skin, the identical hue of the eyes, after long, miserable years of separation. Free to speak their mother tongues, their Caspilenese poured thick and fast, until they had little breath to spare.

"Anyali―is it, truly you? I thought, what a dream this may be―"

"No, no dream at all, dear sister! Only a lovely interlude of you and I, at last, together―turn your thoughts to nothing else, spare not one moment to your worries!"

"So much silence in exchange for my letters, I thought you loathed me! I was terrified of that, I thought, you had forgotten me, in your happiness―" She confessed, heavy pearls of tears streaming down her cheeks as she pressed her young sibling's cheek to her breast.

"...My happiness? I've had no happiness, only alp-haunted nightmares! You are the one never wrote―I thought, surely you must've been bitter towards me―"

"I've written only thousands of letters, thousands upon thousands! If I had but a scrap from you, none of this would've happened―this is all _my_ fault, you see―" She tried to explain, but Anya silenced her with a firm gaze and a finger to her lips.

"Hush! How could it be your fault? They've always had it out for me, loathing me because of our country...though admittedly, I also committed an act of adultery, which only fueled their fire―but they would have accepted anything as an excuse! Such wild rumors flew, Alda, they work themselves into a frenzy just because we're of different blood!"

"―No, understand, dearest―I have committed such terrible crimes. I've been taken into the beds of politicians' daughters, cheating and lying, deliberately trying to―to break the alliance!" She cried, shaking her head.

" _Deliberately trying_ ―? But―whyever for?"

"Because I missed you! Because I couldn't bear it without you! The isolation, you have no idea what toll it took on me―"

"On the contrary, I suffered something equal," Anya muttered bitterly. "But this is all nonsense, Alda! Unless you went up the Generals themselves, stole their arms, and shot a Mondediolle citizen with a Caspilene gun, nothing you could've done, would've had an impact on such a grand scale―no matter how much you wished for it!"

"But I am unworthy of your forgiveness! If only you realize, Anyali, how I am―"

"You are my beloved older sister! I treasure you and cherish you, I love you, and I never want to part from you again!" Anya said fiercely. "That is who you are, no matter what grim portrayals your mind might paint for yourself! You are not damned simply because you are forever childless!"

"...You have always been a better older sister than I, Anyali." Alda conceded, with a shuddering sigh of defeat.

Anya pulled her closer, resting her tired head on her weeping shoulder, inhaling not the reek of ashes and dust, but the scent of summer apples they picked together on the eve of autumn, the dry grass they had once rolled in until they were ill with mirth, the perfume they had once tried on during an important dinner, only to make the guests sick from the overly-pungent floral odor―despite the scolding, they had only laughed and exchanged secret glances of mischief.

―The thunder of heavy boots made them each stiffen in terror; loud, gruff voices snarling back and forth in Mondediollene. The footsteps advanced, both girls too stunned to move, before the pain of Alda's nails digging into her hand awoke her to reality.

"Hide," She murmured. Anya made to shook her head, but the nails only sliced deeper into her flesh. "Hide! It's my turn to protect you."

"I won't! I won't leave you behind again―" The doorframe rattled, shadows spilling out from beneath the gap; the fright in her expression betraying her brave words.

"Hide, Anyali―" But Alda didn't wait for another protest, roughly seizing her sister's shoulders and pushing her down, forcing her to crouch inside the cabinet. She held her back to the door so that Anya could not pry it open, just as the soldiers burst in, the door splintering under the combined weight.

"Damn you scoundrels, raising arms against your own royalty! Do what you like to me, but my pride will never be broken!" Alda cried, switching languages without a moment of hesitation in her rich, haughty voice, her gaze bold and strong, despite the sweat on her shaky hands.

Rough hands seized her, believing her claim as they forced her to stand straight, pinning her arms beneath her back. Alda willingly followed them out into the main room, head held low, praying desperately, fervently for her sibling's location to remain concealed.

"And the soldier?" She froze, turning her head to see both her companions had similarly been dragged to their feet, their arms raised to their heads, the alarm in Rosette's eyes not dampening the depths of true hatred radiating from her gaze, while Dominique watched the procession in a mix of silent relief and confusion, a heavy shroud of guilt in her expression as she remained silent.

One passing man gripped the colonel's chin, examining her face. Seeming to take delight in her clenched teeth and slitted eyes, he released her at last. They shoved their hostages down, forcing the women onto their hands and knees, a choked noise leaving Dominique at the pressure on her bad arm. Managing to endure, it only lasted long enough for the soldiers to search haphazardly through the common girl's cupboards, taking what little rations she had stored: stale bread, dried meat, the remains of some withered tea leaves. With that, Alda was led through the door, and disappeared with the rest of the intruders. From the window, Dominique followed Alda with her gaze as far as she could see, the thick snow obscuring the cracked glass.

The faint noise of sobbing came from the side room, and Anya emerged, distraught and face muddled. "We have to go after her." She said at last, catching a few breaths and switching back to shaky Mondediollene.

"We can't," Rosette said miserably. "They'll be guarding us at the corners of the house. I heard them, they want to barricade the windows and doors until we starve."

"I don't care!" She snarled, stomping one foot. "I'm not going to let us be separated again for another moment!"

"Then what will you do, rush out after her and expose Alda's disguise? All that will accomplish is that they will shoot the both of you!" Dominique retorted. "I understand your frustration, but please be patient! Acting like a child and weeping like a fountain will help no one, Anya!"

"And you know very well, such thick pearls were once devoted to your sake as well!" Anya snapped, in barely more than a furious whisper.

"You think you're the only one feeling helpless? _Pearls_? I only see chunks of sea-salt rocks, bits of coal, soaked in midnight and little else!" Dominique raised her voice, the feeling of helplessness and desperation overwhelming her. It killed her, ravaged her entrails to impart such cruelty, but she had to make her see sense. "I imagine, you blind thing, that you'll next try to take it upon yourself to reclaim your previous station, and request a cushion beneath yourself, in compensation for lost lovers and unfulfilled incestual ecstasy! I warned you once, of how the world was! Please, understand!"

Anya stumbled back, as if slapped, expression crumpling even further into ugly despair. "Fetch a pillow, then!" She answered. "And join your frame upon mine, lie with me, and smother me!"

"Quite a peaceful passing! Are you sure you don't want something more suitably melodramatic, like leaping from a balcony, to join your sunken siren? Well then, I―"

"Stop!" Begged Rosette, shaken by the fighting. "Both of you, cease! One of our own has been taken, and look at you squabble! _Mademoiselle_ Anya, you cannot rush, that is all she is saying! It is the pinnacle of foolishness to act wildly, and let your sister's actions be in vain! You are not the only one who has lost a sibling," She added lowly. "I know how much you fear to lose her."

The raging fire had been dampened; the blame she had tried so hard to discard fell back upon her like an anchor, and Anya fell to her knees, shaking her head and driving a fist against the floor with a guttural curse. "Again! _Again!_ Is there no goddess of mercy for us?!"

"Mercy is dead," Dominique replied, blushing in shame at the words she had uttered, reaching forward to stroke the top of the weeping queen's head. "We can only rely on ourselves."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Her hair: the hue of cobwebs, dusts, ghosts, spirits of lace-brides; eyes: spilt-blood, devil's shine, damnation and fire; and all of it wrapped in the marble flesh of girl, a Lolitine idol of adoration and molestation, hooked arm-in-arm with her step-sister, a doll with lacquer-dark ribbon at her throat, crow-black hair with the undertone of coffins, glass eyes flickering eagerly from gentleman to gentleman, and away from male guests entirely, to finally settle on her sibling. She would say Saliette's coloring was of flour for loaves of sweet honeyed bread, the rich cream for stews, and the froth of candy sundaes. And Saliette, in return, would stumble over her piano smiles and mutteringly offer cherished compliments in return.

 _Madame_ Elizabeth was hosting her annual dinner party, which various prim ladies with plump purses and a hand in their husbands' pockets had chosen to attend. Christmas supper at their traditional home was a very fanciful affair, with a formal meal—cloth napkins laid over the delicate lap-frills, a dozen different types of silverware, crystal glasses and golden plates, upon which thick stew was served, along with mutton leg, stuffed pheasant, strong odorous cheese in mild decay, and a scarlet blood pudding for dessert—and afterwards, all retired to the parlor—save the furniture, bidden to gather their brothers and sisters to wash—including dashing _Monsieur_ Luce, who had dropped by for a private conversation with Victoria about her academic intercourses. Arithmetic and basic reading comprehension all well, he assured _Madame_ Elizabeth, but her unfortunate physical education was just dreadful: her little hand could barely grasp a monkey-bar―or some other form of pale scepter―for very long, so he needed to tutor her on endurance. And Saliette? She was a doll in class, and her grades were all in order, but he had yet to test her on bodily practices.

When petty conversation was through, Luce clapped one spider-huge hand on the frail wing of Victoria's pink shoulder, attempting to escort her up the garland-strung stairway for a quick chat. He admired her lustrous curls, especially when pulled back with a simple hairband like that, as it made the chalky-pale pale length of her arms all the more bright―the young girl recoiled, hesitant and feet dragging as he led her deeper into the crevices of the mansion. How herself would later weep for the Extraordinarily Foolish and Especially Desperate Victoria, the darling blackbird fledgling, narrow-eyed nymphet with her cluster of miniature chocolate blue eggs in her porcelain fingers, so daintily rose-tipped, thieved from the dessert bowl. Dropping like them like marbles down the hallway, to mark the progression of her twisting, winding passage, led by her Teacher, Who Seemed Quite Gentlemanly Until You Shared A Single Bed With Him. Or divan, or chaise, he would correct in his antiquated, elegant speech, and elaborate that furthermore, to bed meant no more than to firmly anchor something, and anyone who thought elsewise was merely a filthy-minded little girl; for example, his hand drifting down the low slope of her curled spine to the shivering curve of her buttock was bedded there. In addition, there was bedding, which could also refer to a foundation―a _noun_ , you grammatically-challenged idiotte―for example, his hand bedded on her backside was pushing her onto the bed, in this instance, a chair, which sat next to a literal bed. And finally, to draw their lesson to a close, there was the final definition: Bed: to be carnal, have coition, have relations, to make love―

The brat attempted to correct him, but he would see this through, in spite of her unfair and hurtful accusations: his hand shifted to the miraculously hot, fever-damp down of her thigh, _bedding_ there. And to steal, in this case wasn't so much illegal, and blasphemous as to imply _immoralities_ somehow factioned into it, so much as carefully withdrawing a well-deserved sort of―reward, or loan, an unspoken, but promised gift after years of endured silences, the inside of her mouth painted cherry-red and swollen with his kisses, the swats and stings of his pupil's tantrum having little more force than the good-natured roughhousing with her regular playmates. And he sought out her thirteen-year demurity―practically on the verge of spoiling, how overly-ripe her scent!―marveled at it, consumed by it, and simply devoured her so-called misnomer of purity―pure she was not, her taste ruined by the tang of pubertal blood. But it turned out to be all for the better, for whatever tiny spasming of death she might have received from his workings yielded only a thin trickle, bitter as dirt, and the slick was needed for everything to be complete. He pressed his hugeness against her, simply taking in her likeliness, capturing the eternal memory for aid in such solo endeavors: her moon-pale stomach and those modest buds, disheveled hair thrown across the fat pillow, thick lashes matted with tears, the arc of her throat, and the lovely blur of low, low pink his fingers had pried open. Her curdled groans threatened to rise to a scream once more, and he thrust himself up to the hilt. He was, it must be reiterated, _most_ tender with her compared to most girls. And by the time he had finished, she hardly seemed to mind at all, the little charmer! She laid on her stained belly and wiped off his spendings with a corner of the sheets, but no more tears were shed, not one more drop into a miserable ocean! Her eyes, once childishly bright, had darkened into a nightish hue, and she refused to speak for the longest time, unable to; for whatever reason made utterly speechless.

"... _Monsieur_ Luce," She asked, at last. How timid she sounded! "...Had you done that with Saliette?"

"Never," He primly replied, already zipped and buttoned, while she lay indecently exposed. "Only partially, if anything." He fixed her with a sidelong glance, cupping the frame of her cheek. "You're far more preferable."

Should she be flattered, or should she be sickened? The warring two were obvious in her expression. But she never did reply, turned away until he closed the door upon his exit, rejoining the festivities. She at last slept, sobbing, and not even the bright colored wrapping or the sight of her many, many presents on the table the following morning could cease her anguish.

With an animal cry, she seized the gorgeous bows and hurled the gifts into the wall―the new mink coat, the polished cherry-dark shoes, the milky-pearl necklace, all of it sent by a bitterly familiar admirer―and collapsed into a pile of tousled hair and ruined night-things. Timidly, one of the furniture suggested a cup of honeyed tea and put her to bed, and she refused to be seen for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Mama―" The whine repeated twice over by one unravelling sock and black coat, a child in there somewhere and drowning in her sea-green dress, a tiny hand at her frilled wrist, rubbing and scratching at the thread of lopsided buttons. " _Mother_ ―"

"What is it you need? A higher chair? Furniture, tend to her―" Elizabeth tugged away her hand with the firmness any hired governess.

"No, it's not the seating―the seating is fine, mother. However―"

"Close your mouth; don't talk with it full, girl. And look at how your hold your knife! Is our silver finery mere disposable implements to you? Look at how Saliette holds her own, how straight and elegant her back is! Do well to make yourself a model after her."

There was a shift beneath her, upsetting Victoria's hot broth from her shallow dish, the scalding stew landing across her lap in a burning splash. With a high shriek, she leapt up, turning her misfortune to the girl beneath her. The one with the uncultured accent cowered beneath the sparks of rage in her gaze, and she crushed her fingers beneath her heel. "Stupid, useless, thing! You made me spill on _purpose!_ You enjoying making me the fool, you―!" She carried on like this, over unfettered cries of pain until black bloomed on her knuckles and the fragile back of her hands.

"Victoria―" Sharp as a whip, Saliette's voice rang out. "I've lost my appetite, you can have mine. Just stop beating the poor thing."

"I―" The storm fled as soon as it came, and shame burnt her cheeks brightly. She glanced down at the servant, drops of red soaking into the carpet.

"Enough," Her false sibling sighed, standing and shoving away her dishes. "Tend to her." She nodded curtly towards Robin, and she changed from all fours down to one knee, gathering battered Henri in her arms.

"But, Saliette! What of your own seat?" She protested, helplessness and stupidly; and shivered from the dark depths of her gaze.

"If you're so insistent about tending to my needs, how about _you_ get down and serve me?" She replied, and stormed away from the table.

As one furniture carried the other out towards the impoverished room which served as the infirmary, and her meal companion had gone, that left her with just her mother. ―That was right, her mother! She needed to tell her, her, most of all, of what terrible things _Monsieur_ Luce had inflicted upon her! She may have belittled her for her manners, her grades, and her inferior appearance, but even she would open a piece of her heart towards her own daughter's horrific endurances! They still shared that thread of fondness between each other, did they not? Perhaps, even, she would withdraw her from lessons and show her a new school! Her hopes burned brightly in naïvety: although there had always been a distance between them since her father's death, perhaps this tragic happenstance was the catalyst needed to bridge the broken splinters of their family! Oh, how she dared to hope!

"I apologize mother, for my rude outburst. I haven't been myself lately, and you must know why―"

But there was no Elizabeth in the room.

* * *

" _Mademoiselle_ , you should come to supper. Everyone is waiting―"

" _Mademoiselle_ must do nothing! There is no one waiting for me!" She spat back, face buried in her dented and damp pillow. Her entire body shuddered with the force of her muffled cries, her hands tightened into shaky fists. "I refuse to go down there; no one there cares about me, not when Saliette is there! No one will even listen!"

There was a long silence, and she pressed herself harder against her quilt, as if going to disappear altogether into it. however, just as she thought the maid had finally left: "― _Mademoiselle_ Victoria―does it relate in any way, to the spotted sheets that were gathered yesterday―?"

Her breath choked in her throat; she whipped her face towards the closed doors. "You're just _furniture!_ You haven't any place to ask me about anything!" The girl screamed, face blotched with scarlet, flushed with anger and humiliation.

"...It's as you say. I have no place." Came the murmur, and the door creaked open just a fraction, enough to expose wavy wine-red hair, a slice of pale skin, and one narrow, dark eye. "―Unlike yours: a throne of your own making, quilts and mattreisse, shared with any man with sweets in his pocket, and a square of velvet upon his knee."

"― _I_?" Her voice choked from the shrillness, the insult felt almost as if it were a physical blow, and she reeled back. " _How dare you_ , presume to know anything about _me!_ Do you want to end up like the other furniture, you arrogant, self-entitled brat! Mother will punish you, most severely―!"

"―However, you said it yourself. No one will listen to you." The door shut, the glimpse of a smile curling at her lips as careful steps retreated down the hallway.

When she came down at last, her soup was ice, her salad wilted, and her lamb with mint jelly congealed into an unappetizing mess. Naturally, she was alone at the long table.

"Your mother said, 'If she acts like a child, she will be treated as one. Furniture are forbidden to bring her supper.' I thought it would be better to let you alone, given your previous irritation."

She jolted at the voice, turning to see her sibling standing in her lace gown like ghost-like waif. "Don't you hold any affection for me at all? Couldn't you have defended me, taken my side, just once?" She begged, but those scarlet eyes were hard, she wrenched her wrist free of her grip. "Saliette―I know, it was terrible of me to leave you with him, and now I know for myself, how monstrous he can be―but can't you forgive me, can't you?"

A finger against her lips silenced her, but there was still no hint of tenderness in her face, sending a chill racing through her heart. "Victoria, this isn't the place to converse of such things. If you insist on pestering me, retire to a private room first."

She nodded dumbly, a puppet on strings as she made her way up the stairs. Her sister loathed her, that much was obvious. Yet at the same time, bitterness needled at her own heart towards the girl. Who did she think she was, this intruder, stealing her popularity, her comforts of home, her _mother?_ And most infuriating of all, it was her own damnable fault for not leaving her, crushed beneath the carriage!

The door closed, a candle was lit. They had holed themselves up in Saliette's room, but despite the flicker of warmth from the fireplace, she felt colder and colder with the ticking time. "There are three invitations to a ball from the Lerange family. One was meant to be given to you over dinner, however..." And she produced the envelope from her pocket.

"Saliette― _Mademoiselle de Sandwich_ ―cease this cruelty! I've committed no faults against you; it was I who rescued you, I who nursed you when hurt, I would taught you, and stayed by you! Why, then, do you act as if I have some deplorable grievance upon me?"

"But you have." Like the crack of the whip, Victoria flinched back. "You most definitely have, _dear sister_. You adore me as if I was some kind of doll to you, a new toy to parade around, a prize jewel of a collection. If it wasn't for my blood, you would've left me to rot with the rats! Look at the demon you are, beneath your veneer of kindness! See your selfishness for yourself!"

"What― ...C-come now, see sense, yes? Your asking a noble to taking pity on those filth? You're angry over that one furniture, is that it? I don't understand, how can you be so upset―?"

Saliette made a noise of thick disgust in her throat, throwing the letter at her feet. She breathed a sigh of relief that it had not been singed, and she fell to her knees to collect it. With the expression of a judge, she watched her trembling hands tear it open and hastily unfold the note. "Look at you. You're so desperate for status that you act like any common mongrel to salvage it. _There_ is your pride, Victoria! That is all you're worth!"

Tears spilled over, but words eluded her. When she received no hand to help her up, nor even a glance of mercy, she gathered herself up, making to leave. "...One of the knives is missing from the kitchen. Have you st―seen it?"

She fixed her with a scarlet gaze, mellowed from her previous bellicose. "It is uncommon for kitchens to miss their knives, as husbands miss their wayward wives. Go ask _Robin_ , why don't you? Or are you afraid she's contagious?"

A powder-scented sigh. She closed the door, slipping into her own quarters, just across the hall. As she climbed into bed, she saw the fire had been heartily fed, her sheets skillfully tucked. Burying her face into a perfumed cushion, Victoria remembered her stomach was empty, but didn't call for a snack to be prepared. She had lost her appetite, entirely, for sandwiches.

No one slept that night.

* * *

The ball was, as promised, an interlude of decadence and hollow flattery, bestial minds behind human masquerade masks. The meals were thick, savory stews, fattened geese served in chilled broth, hot loaves of brown bread spread with butter as rich as cream. Victoria, the black lamb, had oddly enough, for the first time in her youthful life, refused to dance when a young man offered to sweep her across the marbled floor, and only reluctantly fluttered into his arms when a tall gentleman―handsome, dark suit, scarlet flower in his lapel―took her by the shoulder, intending to take her for a waltz of his own.

But Saliette! For the first time, she had never seen such splendor and wonder, disgust and revulsion, mingled into one place. Such deliciously wasteful extravagance, the taste of indulgence on rotten wine and thick cuts of over-sweetened meats, for the pure joy of stewing in their own hedonism until sick, ladies purging in perfumed lavatories, men dabbing their pale, damp cheeks and foreheads with more rouge powder and whirling them around once more for a fast-fingered dance. She had nibbled at the dry samples: smoked lox and capers, festering cheese and warm bread, vegetables carved in intricate fashions, but it did little to slake the swarm of nervous knots tangled inside of her, remembering all the lessons imparted to her, how to act as a lady: head high, dress fastened low, barely above her breastbuds to expose the most obscene amount of swan-pale throat, speak politely but vigorously. For if she blundered here, if her common blood was revealed, she had no doubt her fine conversational companions would fall upon her like beasts. The bones of the corset dug into her flesh, causing her to wince; she raised a glass to her mouth in efforts to blame the drink for her displeasure instead.

For all her hatred and loathing of aristocrats, she could not help the yearning for their lifestyle; indeed, staying with her new caretakers had been the most pleasant days of her life: the rich food, the fine clothes, the blindfolds they wore every time a downtrodden dared to chance near and beg for scraps. But she was no beggar; no longer. Men would court a girl they would've sooner let their dogs devour on the streets, girls would laugh and swoon and tear their cushions in private, so strong their agonized disgust towards her, seething with jealousy. Perhaps, even a little lesbian might approach her with a ring, a subtle brush of sleeves, an offer to better partake of the night air in peace. And lo, it was this irony that tasted sweeter than any dessert.

She could not helping flinching as she felt a slight tug of the hem of her skirt―had it gotten caught on a tile, or was it the wandering hand of philanderer?―and she turned, preparing to snap her fan shut on his fingers. But it was neither, only a waif-like boy wearing a black suit far too ill-fitting for his slight frame, with hair so fine and golden, and eyes so large and lashes so dark that he looked almost quite like a young girl. As if suddenly bashful, he retracted his pale hand almost apologetically.

"I beg your pardon, but your dress, it had gotten caught―" He valiantly tried his utmost to remedy the situation, lest the insulted innocent let out a scream. And she _would_ have, had this been a usual case; but his eyes were clear as day and his words earnest: there was genuine apology in his voice. So she slid the line of frill from his gloved hand, instead curtseying like a proper lady.

"It's of little importance, a mere trifle." She said, noticing with keen eyes how his gaze neither wandered nor demanded of her, it was as if she looked like an ordinary child, with none of her bizarre coloring. "Do forgive my manners―I am Saliette von Vane."

"Charmed; I am Cornelius Panettiete, pleasured to make your acquaintance." He bent low over her hand, brushing lips against her fingertips. And although he was pleasant and light-hearted, his eyes―they were so very dark, so very tired, weary, even. Weary of the balls, the festivities? Weary of the guests? Or weary of the entire wretched world?

"Weariness and woe, what a pair we make." The words slipped from her before she could stop them, and her hand flew to her mouth. What would he think, if he heard her babbling nonsense?

"Like lovers, bitter and sweet." He responded, without a single beat of missing time, a crooked, but at last truthful smile on his lips.

"With eyes so dark, can you truly say that without jest?" Despite the corset caged around her, the hundreds of people who could likely overhear, she felt herself begin to speak thoughtlessly, recklessly, free of repercussion.

"With eyes so bright as pomegranate seeds, can you truly disbelieve such words?" He countered, and once again she was taken aback. A strange child, no older than herself, who held none of aristocrats' usual mannerisms, none of the shallow substance usually thrown into exchanges. A kind boy, with demons lurking in his eyes. A gentleman, in the truest sense of the word. Whereas, she was little more than a sham, coal trussed up like a diamond, her words frail falsery and her kindness brittle.

"Fine, then; I do yield," She spread the pleats of her skirt, and while she meant to inquire of his intentions, at that moment, her step-sister tumbled out from between the throng of people, swept into her pale arms. Whereas, if a usual occasion, Victoria would cried her name and excitedly shared a new morsel of gossip, now she looked as if an animal fleeing from the dark bars of a cage, iron and rust.

"Saliette―Saliette―I entreat you, do not, do not let him near―for if you do, it's akin to befitting yourself with those ruby shoes, which burst aflame as you dance, and will surely burn you to cinders! Please―I've had enough festivities for today, please, just take me home―" The scent of violet candy in her pocket and the rumpled state of her petticoat told the whole story, and fleetingly, the sting of pity entreated her to stroke the length of that quivering cheek, those dark-dark eyes full of ocean-salt. 

"Hush now, dear-heart, don't you see I have a guest?" But the girl took no heed of her words, instead shuddering against her with the force of a violent storm, clinging all the more fiercely.

"You sound like mother, you do, when you speak like that―" The crowlette sobbed, casting a fearful glance towards one feast table, as if contemplating drowning herself in the cider. Her gentleman seemed to realize that their conversation had been abandoned; she tried to pry herself away, to continue, but the damnable pest was undeniable. The girl had sheltered her, yes, after crushing her arm. But she had behaved remarkably well while beneath their hospitality already, and owed her no favors. She was the one who left her in that blackbox class to fend for herself, and now she came running to her like a tail-less mouse?

"Release me, you awful serpent!" She snatched her wrists―brittle, wont to snap with the lightest pressure―scarlet eyes flashing a marvelous jade in envy.

"Serpent?" The word was a hysterical note choked in her throat, "O, but you are wrong! For all that I've allotted to you, for all my mercy in saving you that day, your humility and gratitude has turned to poison and curses! Cuffs spotted with pink, my favorite velvet gloves torn to shreds! You think I don't notice your mischief, this pseudo-rivalry you feel towards me, your hatred? You're no better than the beasts who wander the streets! In fact―if I did not have utter trust and love for you―I would say you _were_ one of them, black-blooded, empty-hearted! I still suspect you about the knife!"

"The missing kitchen knife! The gloves! See, how foolish you are, you fantastical child, scheming up crimes and planting evidence to nurse your swollen ego!" She snarled, fingers turning to claws, the blue rivers of Africa turning to churning rapids, the heart pounding a fierce bam-bam-banging at her wrist.

Her pulse pounded the roar of war-drums while her thoughts knotted and tangled, for not all her words were lies; she had just an ounce of intelligence and evidence, then her nightmares would come true―if Victoria unlocked her idiot mouth and spewed forth a plethora of pretty lies wrapped in a translucent ribbon of weeping and theatrics, then―

"And you are deliberately sidetracking the issue! Red; pale; you abominable witch! I thought I truly loved you, once!" The boy had vanished, her hand falling upon the table as if for support, while her sibling-cum-stranger shattered an entire tray of wine glasses as whispers scrambled across guest to guest, murmuring that she must have been very drunk, and out of the crowd, her star-named devil appeared, sleek as he crept closer towards the web of familial woes, face shadowed by flickering candlelight.

"Come now―I apologize, are you satisfied? I apologize, now come away from there―" She managed to say, yet it was all too late; Victoria was deaf as well as almost blind. A window gaped hugely, a massive, elephantine frame of glass and iced color, not too far from where she stood presently and was only nearing closer, her expression fixated madly on her.

"Where were you, Christmas day? _Where were you?_ Did you arrange it, a humble little meeting of you and him, out of spite? A study session for the three of us?" Now her words truly baffled and alarmed her, and Saliette's annoyance had turned to rage and panic at her accusations.

"Now, see here! Even I, even someone like _I_ , has a common code of morality, and to inflict that upon you, I would never―!"

" _You sided with the furniture!_ You've stolen my mother, cursed her! You must―must be a liar, a cheat, a fraud, a fake! Why were you in the poorest part of this grand city, that day? Is it because _you_ were on your way to the opera, dressed in rags, shoe-less, without transportation nor escort? Your wonderful father, _Count de Sandwich_ , truly allowed that, did he?"

"No! I told you, my mother passed away, he abandoned me!" She cried, bile burning her throat in a desperate reminder for air, tears threatening to consume her herself, while Victoria was already weeping fit for a portrait, not bothering to hid the ugly crumpling of her face with a fan.

"Truly? Honestly? Is that the truth? I've spared no lies towards you, _sister!_ At the least, repay me in kind!" The thick and fast conversing of the onlookers resembled the hum of wasps in her ears, stinging her senses and injecting her with poison, more potent than the last as she felt true terror of being revealed. Her hand laid upon the table, spidering past the crystal bowls and diamond glasses.

"You wish for me to lie―?" Bony fingers caught upon a rare treasure: the length of a blade, one for meat cutting, and for all the divine rage and power in their voices, they were barely five paces apart.

" _You're not a noble at all, are you!_ "

And with that, the final threads of familial fondness were severed, venom uncorked and the knife in her hand, taking one, two strides forward to plunge it into Victoria's traitorous heart.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Rosette's guilt still stung and bled afresh, the deepest wounds still green as tender spring clovers, the gaze of an adder, the scum of sewers. Hot, honeyed teas were drank, warm chocolate concoctions were named divine, even the black, lukewarm, and bitter imported coffee could be appreciated, and none tainted with preparations beforehand. The female soldier dined plentifully, supped and partook in it all with dutiful manner, and while her midnight gaze occasionally turned black with demons, it was a relief to see she no longer took alcohol until sick.

On frigid nights, she could not help thinking of her brother's mittened embrace, stealing the broth from his lips, listening to the coo of lullabies. Familial and romantic loves blurred alike, although, she had not known until very recently of Dominique's sex. She remembered the sickening thud of her heart in surprise, when changing the poor militarienne, sliding a hollow hand between the lapels of a brilliant red jacket, untangling the ruined undershirt. Not that she begrudged Dominique for her deception: it mattered little whether she was male or not, or so she convinced herself―just as it mattered with equally small concerns whether she could ever reciprocate her crushed, velvet-pink heart, still so feeble and finally starting to beat with regularity again, once stopped after realizing how deep the soldier's inflicted wounds upon her went, past the flesh and into marrow. After all, Dominique had promised her a villa, a room, and gave no sign of further violent beastishness from that iron-sour night, not stating in words her exact intentions, but was such conversational frillery really necessary?

To Rosette, at least, they were everything. Foolishness, the height of it. Stupidity, she had already drowned in, and now dragged back to shore with a tangle of chains upon her ankles and fingers clawing for respite. Yet how could she? In comparison, or even without―she had attempted to rouse lust, her aim a most intimate arrangement―that was undeniable. Equals? Had she really uttered those naïve ideals, in a time of _madame_ guillotine's reign? She was undeserving, but her heart still burned greedily like a furnace, yearning to claim a happiness which should perish along with dust, for her crimes committed. A crime, yes, and forgiveness should have been enough. Sleep eluded her frequently, and on those particular happenings, she fixed herself a tonic and put herself to bed, forcing herself to lie between a stone-filled mattress and paper sheets rather than seek out a comfort she would have to disturb from deserved slumber.

After everything, after everything―the terrible thing she deigned to call love still sat grotesquely in her breast, which should have been pierced ten times over already. She wanted to be embraced, yet she shuddered at her touch. She craved Dominique―Dominique's affection, a lover's appreciation, yet felt she was fated to fling herself into an ocean before she could come close to being half as worthy. She was no better than a murderess, but in the most fleeting of moments, only in the night's death hours, she wished she had still saved that minuscule bottle of aphrodisiac, wax cork and all. Infinite things to be preferred, infinite things to be reviled―these were such ruminations which regularly tormented her unoccupied thoughts.

"Leander, my midnight ghost." Rosette could not help muttering to herself, rising from her bed, once again deprived the blue dust of slumber. Across from her, the neglected, ousted queen slept not four paces away, while the last of their missing number often sat at the rickety kitchen table at these hours, sipping cider amongst spiders. The urchin rose to her bare feet in silence, braiding a rope of her thick, dull gold hair with lidded eyes, words laid lightly on her lips like fire-monarchs with inked wings, her stomach crying for honey-sweets, but she had used all of Dominique's gifted coins already for broth, meat, and another threadbare bed. She tremblingly lit a candle, shaking off the remnants of her―nightmare―and resolved to dash her nightly cocoa tonight with salt; not as fine as sugar, but it would have to do. She stepped lightly into the kitchen, as a blind gypsy might wander into her ancient pot of spices and brined creatures, seeing her hunch had indeed been correct.

" _Monsieu_ ― _Mademoiselle_ Dominique?" In light of recent wounds suffering gangrene, she had reverted back to a more formal manner of speech. Even her name burnt like a devil's mark on her tongue, her heart squeezed afresh like the bloodied pulp of a fruit, ruined down to its pit. The tall woman at the table wore a knitted sweater, along with shoddy pair of slacks she had cobbled together for her with spare cloth, and both articles looked strange on her frame, not because they were ill-fitting, but because she had once worn the uniform of their country with such pride. Without a cap, her short hair could be properly seen as an almost translucent shade of blonde, and without gloves, her nails were terribly split and torn, although clean, her right hand still tightly bandaged and liberally changed twice a day. She still nursed a fierce range of healing wounds and bruises, ugly and mottled, stinging scarlet or smog-dark, but most of it, thankfully, concealed by her clothing. Even now, she was handsome beyond any genuine man. Was it a trick of nature, to coax her into mingling with her own fair sex? A cruel amusement, to leave her forever unfulfilled?

"I apologize, if my proceedings were too noisy. I was unable to keep a restful pause for long, and decided to aid myself with a slumbersome drink instead, to ward off a chill." Dominique's voice was husky and rich, a low warmth in its sound.

Rosette shook her head. "No; it's of no matter. I was haunted by alps nonetheless." The chair beside her was empty, and she stepped closer to occupy it, nails groaning in protest. Through the window, snow powdered the glass, the sill coated with ice, her breath spilling out in a thin vapor with the passing time, pale shoulders tense, drawing close together. Just beyond the dark fog of morning, she could see a spindly young evergreen no taller than her knee, a red bulb hung from a lone branch, mistletoe above a doorway, the skies thick with chimney-smoke.

"I've forgotten―" Her voice choked, and her scarlet soldier looked to her, alarmed. "The holidays. It passed before I scarcely had chance to notice."

"Of course not, your mind was occupied with greater occurrences than a frivolous few days―" Dominique began to speak rapidly in a defensive manner, as if she had begun to berate herself once more.

"Frivolous? No, never! Even now, they're precious pearls, irretrievable diamonds! And it passed me by within the blink of an eye, I didn't spare any coin towards gifts―"

"I'm not a child, Rosette. Physical possessions do little with their charms." Her tone grew firmer, taking her by the shoulder, as if shaking her from the murk of a ill dream. "You've already done enough for me; providing shelter is more than I have a right to ask for."

But Rosette shunned her touch, flinching with a violent lurch backwards and scoring her chair legs across the floorboards. A flash of hurt, sharper than any blade, flared in Dominique's eyes, but she concealed it, turning her gaze away and quickly retracting her hand. Rosette stood on weakened knees, muttering, "No―don't leave, I'll be right back―I've just remembered a small token―"

Rosette dug into her cupboards and withdrew an aged bottle, covered with a fine dust. She had acquired it upon her first payment, intending to use it for a toast, perhaps during a special supper, or an occasion along those lines, but such a chance would never again come. Next came a handful of little candles, green and red, most of them melted to wax stubs and burnt to crisps, and finally a tin of flavorless meat. Far from a banquet of stuffed fowl and crystal chandeliers, it was a rather pitiful and sorry attempt, but it was the absolute best she could manage in the current conditions. She lit the candles, poured the wine and offered it with brittle fingers, arranging a few slices of the unknown animal onto her chipped plates. Their little belated Christmas feast, for two.

With a glance, her guest set aside the drink, but did pick up a bent knife and, with some difficulty with only one hand, cut herself a sizeable piece of meat, chewing mechanically and swallowing as if it were a great and insurmountable burden; irons bands tightened around Rosette's withered-bloom heart. As if reading her thoughts, Dominique murmured in a colorless tone, "I'm sure it's a fine year. I've just had enough of those drinks to last me several lifetimes. The recovery process is difficult enough without temptation, but I thank you for the kind gesture."

But Rosette could not shake the dread that it was for an entirely different reason. True, she took schnapps, cocoas, Italian syrup sodas, and plain water, all poured by her hand, but for whatever reason, this particular refusal stuck her like a blow with her nightstick. To hide her wounds, her sips turned to a ravenous gulping, and she sputtered on the bitter taste of rotted grapes and faint vanilla, pulling back only when Dominique guided the glass away with force. The spice of wine still lingered, burning the back of her throat; guilt weighed down upon her, crushing her as an emerald goliath.

"Surely, a bit of indulgence is not wont to do great damage." Rosette tried to coax her, her words meant to be a soothing aid to whatever struggle she was battling.

"A bit of indulgence is the beginning of all foolishness." Dominique replied, entirely humorless. "Fantasies are dangerous beasts." And was it her mere imaginings, or was Dominique's gaze fixed upon her when she spoke? How could she ever forget, this table was the very same one, where―

Rosette took her hands from the table, tucking them beneath her petticoats, her face colored with shame. "I mean not to offend, just to cheer." She said meekly.

She shook her head, giving a deep sigh. "No, I apologize. It's I who repeats; repeating orders, words of greater men twice as strong as I can measure up to―you see, how my temper lashes out, unfettered? I am a record of misery and woe when drunk. I am utterly useless, a brute. You've been beneath my claws once already."

Such terrible, cutting words, she wanted to stop them, by whatever means. But she went on, "To be wholly honest, there's been nothing more I fancy at this hour than a strong drink. You may have seen me with a gin here, perhaps a tonic there, but when I am truly considered intoxicated, drunk on more than just what passes through my lips, drunk on desire, drunk on bloodlust―you don't know what I am. And I am, with everything, trying to escape that. I've already committed so much that I am ashamed of, but I admit that even you, I cannot depend on so strongly as the simple vices. Because―I have frightened you. I was terrible to you. And your scars still bleed afresh; I don't know if you will ever be able to cease your shudders. 'You have never loved,' I once accused you, but it is _I_ ―I who is so clumsy at love."

She looked as if she could ramble in this self-depreciative vein for hours, knives at her ears, blindfolds at her eyes, and Rosette could stand it no longer. Oh, how could she cruelly deprive her of whom she wanted, whom she was trying to pursue with such a raw heart, and yet simultaneously yearned to spare her of such exquisite aches? How could she?

But, was forgiveness so swift? She was the poisoner, the murderess. If she was no better than the common whore, if this was the only way she could provide comfort, so be it. She wanted her to look at her, only her, and her greed devoured her. Her selfishness truly knew no bounds, and an icy terror overtook her; she shivered strongly in her arms, her lashes dampened with tears, spilling before she could stop them. If she never believed her―if she never could believe her oaths of loyalty, words of love, then her contentment would turn to suspicion, hatred. She would never be able to stand such loneliness again―her feelings would transform into a vicious, festering wound. She must have been mad, wicked to her bones.

Rosette leaned close, breath ghosting along the soldier's jaw, hands curling at the front of her jacket. She could feel her tense, gripping her slender wrist unthinkingly, bruisingly hard, words catching in her throat, a protest, or a name, but she never heard the rest of it. 

Dominique's lips tasted of ashes and attar. It was a lingering kiss, teeth clicking uncomfortably together and fluttering breaths fanning against her cheek, pressing as if she was desperately trying to stamp her presence onto her, a thousand tastes of nicotine, hot chocolate, salt, the faint odor of gunpowder and, paradoxically enough, a man's shaving set, but it was all uniquely her. But before Rosette could apologize, or lean closer, her dear one was firmly pulling away, her heart pounding the beat of war drums.

"Rosette," Dominique murmured, lips damp, eyes bright beneath her lashes. "Cease this."

Stop? Halt? But she had been trying to convey forgiveness, never to upset or distress her! Had she been too forward? Or had this all been her misunderstanding, but no; she had been most assured of her heart's placement, she had been convinced. Why, then? Why did Dominique look as if she were to weep, why did she look ravaged by demons, rent with agony, despair, and loathing? Why did she clench her fingers as if intent on breaking brittle bone, why did she turn her gaze away, as if touching something hell-borne? What was the name of her demon, what caused her such anguish?

Rosette could place no reason or rhyme, but instead drew back, her fingers slithering back to their place in her pockets, ashamed and palened as arsenic. Her moment of blind confidence had crumbled, and the black ink of woes ensnared her once more. Temptation. Regrets. The familial curse of guilt upon her. She wavered, but the other woman said no more, slowly and solemnly shaking her head as if weighed with insurmountable burdens. As she was bid, she retired to her bed, straining her ears for any other sounds.

The bitter autumn scent of alcohol thickened, grew pungent, and she knew Dominique had broken her oath.

* * *

The following morning, Rosette had outdone herself, a scarlet feast wrapped in pink velvet ribbons of fat, a splendor of bloody hearts, dark marrow sitting in a broth of stock. And while Anya donated a pocket of lavender candies to the table, neither nymphet ate. The flower-named girl in particular merely picked at her calf's leg with languish, the dark syrup spilling onto her napkin, very nearly spoiling her lap. Nor did her distraction escape her companion's gaze, sea-dark but silent.

Dominique knew well what could be plaguing the common girl, the gesture from the night previous keeping her dreamless at all hours. Rosette's face was as innocent as butter, flushed rabbit-dark in the cold Christmas epilogue. The soldier felt awash with disgust at herself, for once again, she had torn a young girl's puerile heart to shreds, although this time it was not from a vicious temper or black drug, but the lingering taste of vanilla tobacco and male seed stamped onto her tongue.

"Dominique, your face has taken on less color. Your fingers twitch, your red eyes wander." Anya began, her eyes slitted and her newly-shorn head of dark-brown neatly brushed. "Something is ailing you, but you refuse to concede; is it an illness that clouds your gaze? I have willed to stay, only as long as it takes for your hand to heal. I do not mean to press you, but precious others wait in your footsteps."

" _Mademoiselle_ Anyaliavich," Rosette interrupted, her honeyed voice laced with nettles, "Stop up your worries, you haven't touched your meal. Going without supping is not going to hasten the departure."

"My hearts knows, but my legs are restless, my eyes pry. My sister, my only family! Enduring the years was difficult enough, and now her life is threatened! How can I know that she has not already been killed?" Anya's voice was thick with disgust, lashes wetting; she pushed her porcelain plate away abruptly, nearly overturning the frail china.

"The paper, it'd be in the papers," Rosette soothed, "There would be word, cheers. There, now, don't weep," Her hand found the dusky thigh, patting it in a comforting gesture.

Dominique watched it all, still mechanically spooning marrow between her lips, glancing at her wretched hand. This was no better than when she had been bedridden, no better at all!

"I can't! How can I trust it, after it once said I had a dozen lovers? After it gazed with cool and marble eye upon my affair with fingers of glass and knives, tearing into me? No, I cannot trust word of something like that!" Anya sounded pettish, a wasp poised to sting, but at none of the parties present. She turned to Dominique, sweetly but urgently demanding of her. "My dear-heart, might you know of an apothecary, who carries some medicine to speeden her recovery?"

"He is not a mere horse to carry your luggage! He is―" Rosette stopped as if her tongue had been cut, darkening in humiliation. " _She_ is not bound by your ranks, you cannot order her to recover quicker!"

"Of course not! I have tried my whole life to avoid being Queen, why would I want to flaunt my power at my exact moment of escape! I'm starting to fear that housing with, forgive me, a common-blooded waif to be a mistake after all! After all, my blue blood is mud to you, I can see that! You might sell me for a coin any day, why! It is almost as if you've harbored me because―because you want to harbor _her_ good favor."

" _Anya_ ," The name cracked through the thick air, sharp and jarring as a whip's sting. "Both of you, refrain. I promise you, Rosette is loyal. If she hated aristocrats, she would hold no fancy towards I. Rosette―it's fine, my arm is healing by the day. I have a destination and a date already decided upon."

"When? When?" Came the cries, like so many colorful, greedy birdlings.

"Tonight." It dropped like a stone, breaking the crashing tides of the ocean.

"Tonight! This very evening, even! I had not anticipated such―" Anya stopped again, her cheeks very bright, as if stained with paint, while her hands shivered. "I apologize―my impatience has gotten the better of me, too many times. I am its master, yet..."

However, they did not hear the rest of her sentence, trailed off into dust, as Anya rose unsteadily from the table. "Forgive me, I will have to break here; my temperance is dark-weathered today, it seems."

Dominique stood as Anya made to leave, poised as if to catch her, but she slipped away from her touch as if siren-sunk, her breaths fever-damp and warm in the dawn fog. Anya was not seen for the entirety of the day afterwards, and Rosette whispered it must have been hard, a Queen deprived of jewels and plentitude of servants, in exchange for a little bread and rations. As for traveling, she could not make the journey alone―

"Alone? Shedding as much blood as it is? No, I need a companion; however, it seems Anya is persistently ill, and you are wise to these streets. If her fever does not break, then I shall fetch a doctor on our return." Dominique confided lowly, their voices hushed in the night.

"Is it not cruel, to leave her unaided?" Rosette persisted.

"I suppose a great many things of which I do are cruel. I don't expect forgiveness for it; I can only drown in the black waters."

* * *

The night carried with it a freezing chill which sunk down to Dominique's bones, with each creak of the wheels and thud over cobblestones, her hands tucked inside the pockets of her greatcoat, the stars dimmed and her breathing harsh, almost sounding diseased in the chill; she was being stupid and foolish, risking the weather in her current health, but what choice did she have?

At her side, the scent of roses, a milk-wash face, plain but resolute, and hand shared within her pocket. No. None of a choice at all. She had waved over a brave carriage daring to wander throughout the slums of the city at the hour, passing herself off as a brooding drunk taking home his whore for the night after an extensive celebration in the royal palace. The streets were slick and icy, dangerous condition, but she promised the driver double pay, and, this part Rosette had chimed in, a chance to reap the spoils of her services after she was finished with the aforementioned gentleman. The horses were ungainly things, and the horseman had to whip them in order to keep up a brisk trot, seldomly speaking a word to his passengers. Dominique lit a cigar found in a velvet compartment to drown out the stench of sewer-water through the lace curtains, the orphan beside her clearly disliking the spark of flame but saying nothing about it, sparing her tongue for the moment. They had been traveling long, but it was a tiresome journey, an hour had nearly passed upon their wretched passage; Rosette devouring what was left of a bun and a bone of lamb, her own eyes lidded and lined with black bags beneath her lower lashes.

To hold a midnight execution, really, how childish. It was unlike the King to not put on quite the festivities for his wife's execution, but he wanted the business of war done with quickly. Or rather, the business of his farce of a marriage; the war could rage, bloody and vicious, for many years to come, as he would like. Her gloved hand clutched tightly at her knee, she gave a short knock to the front of the box, urging the pace to quicken. The steering took a jarring yank, the sickening lurch of entrails within her leaving her breathless and blind, squeezing tightly the girl's hand until she had to pull it away with a cry of pain.

"Driver! What is the meaning of such crude guidance!" She snapped, pulling back the curtain to wipe the fogged glass. Rosette, distressingly, had curled inwards into herself, her hand clutching at her side where a dark bruise was sure to grow, swollen and bloated. One hand snapped at the door latch, but before she could wrench it open, a stronger, more brutal force opened it before she could; her breath choked in her throat, from beyond the frame of the intruder, she could see the horseman's throat had been slit, the horses wild, galloping in a frenzy.

A distantly familiar face. Mousy cheeks, dusted with freckles. Choppy, reddish hair now curled and limp from days of unwash, reaching far past her shoulders like tendrils. A girl named of tombs, a greedy shopkeeper, the poor lover of a black-hearted soldier. A revolver clutched in her frail hand.

"Annie Gravelett―?"

"I suggest you sew your mouth up tightly, _monsieur_ , lest you'd like me to puncture your foul tongue with my own needle! Better yet, use your prized gold buttons to seal your lips! " A girlish voice thick with poison, roughened with loathing and the high scratch of hysteria on her throat. She palened, her hand reaching towards her own pistol, but her aim was true, her hand unwavering, eyes shining like arsenic drops. At least, Rosette was curled in her corner of the carriage, not a hair's breadth away from the child, but Annie's attention was wholly on scorning her.

"Did I not warn you? I cautioned you, did I not, of Lionel's fickle ways! And now you are bitter from his rejection―" She at last found her voice, spiced and indignant as she curled two fingers around the sleek metal.

"Rejection!" The word caused Rosette to shudder, stifling a cry, and Annie looked very close to madness herself, beasts' eyes in her head. "I think not, for even that I would've been grateful for! _Monsieur_ Lionel isn't in much of a condition to reject or accept much of anything, in gratitude to your work! Your bullet! I cannot read as splendidly as aristocrats can, but I'm not deaf! I heard of your mounting hatred for the poor soul, proclaimed him a devil one delirious night, nearly choked him to his death-hours!"

"You haven't changed; you persist in blindly believing everything you are told! And I am only trying to lift your own bondage, you masochist, mad with infatuation!"

"I, mad? You are the one who attacked your own soldier, tortured him, and left him in isolation! I received a letter, he told me all! And he has still yet to return, such were the horrors inflicted!" Annie slammed the door shut behind her, the carriage swerving once again at a dizzying pace. "And now, here I take my revenge for him!"

"Delirious child; we have to stop this carriage! Any proceedings of yours will not earn his fondness, I assure this! His heart is hollow, and his lusts vile! Violence and glory are his only loves!" Dominique once again reached for her pistol, the wound flaring up and tearing at her senses from deep within the limb, unforgotten. "Listen to me―!"

Dominique grit her teeth, flinching back as an instinctual terror lurched up from within her, vile and ichorous, black and creeping along her bones, paralyzing her nerves. How much of a fool she was; she had been trained well in how to unarm a mere hysterical citizen with no experience in gunsmanship, but her injuries bound her, her memories suffocated her, the thick taste of moss and mold filling her throat. And, from her child-eyed recollections of stamped and folded nightmares, neatly tucked away like linen napkins, hateful, scarlet leaves leapt from the pale forest! The autumn ground was a hell to devour her, and there was no uncle, no grandfather: she was the mild creature cowering before an amateur huntress, proud and foolish and bent on having her bloodied skin to adorn her walls, her head a handsome prize, her eyes soaked in brine, and stuffed with dust and cotton.

The first shot went off not inches from her thigh, the reek of gunpowder filling her senses and she was jolted back to movement, the grinding halt beginning to pick up its pace, fingers brushing the barrel―as Annie had her muzzle fixed higher, upon her sweat-dabbled face. The cowering girl, in the corner, watched, horrified and transfixed, and appeared to be―praying? Her fingers were laced together in a web of shivering flesh, cheeks bright from where she had pinched them, in an attempt to rouse herself from this nightmare. But no, her grip was all wrong for a prayer, there was something within her hands, concealed before her eyes.

Dominique made to yell, to urge Rosette to flee the carriage before they sank into the iron-black river or caught aflame or crashed, but with yet one last vicious yank, this one far more dizzying and wilder than the last, nausea and bile burning at her throat, she could hold sight on her no more. Dark, molasses-thick droplets sprayed against her face like the foam of champagne, but the taste of coins and the slick warmth of the flesh collapsed against her told her otherwise, her gaze orienting itself to see Rosette, her poisoner, her savior, her murderess―a kitchen knife smuggled between the folds of her dress, now slicing deeply through the thin layers of fat and ribbons of viscera of Annie's shoulder's blade, carving into her until the knife scraped against her back ribs like a trussed fowl―another slash, at the undefended stomach from the side, and the odor of sick spilled upon her, yellowish and watery, and Dominique swore she could glimpse a coil of intestine through the pocket ripped into her flesh.

Rosette released the knife, while Annie, the pitiable waif, collapsed bonelessly to the floor, eyes the color of gingerbread, dyed mad with love and desperation, but still writhingly, vibrantly alive with anguish. Her hair was threaded with sick, her dress soiled, the girl's blood rotted and bitter on her lips, looking very, very small, and lost, and frightened.

Rosette sank to the floor of the carriage, stuffing her fingers into her mouth, pressing hard enough as if trying to invoke illness, but Dominique realized it was to prevent weeping. "I fear―I fear I am mad! I fear I will be the death of you! I am possessed with jealousy, torn asunder with guilt and yearnings, and terror and cravings! No lover will deny he would prefer to see his mistress dead than unfaithful! But Dominique, I wish _I_ was dead, not you, never you! I still want you, all of you! But if I am denied― _rightfully_ , _rightfully_ ―then what illicit arts I may turn to to keep you here, it escapes even me! I am not possessed by witches nor demons, but myself, wholly myself! Mad, miserable, and wretched!"

With a shuddering halt, the carriage lurched to an eventual settle at last, a patrolman having stopped their frenzied dash. He would discover a corpse, a grieviously-injured girl, and a nobleman's handkerchief, for the rest of the passengers had managed to slip away, into the scummed alleyways. Far off, the muffled boom of cannons went off, the cry of announcements swelling high: the Queen was dead. Leaning in the shadow of a tobacco shop, Dominique had to stop to catch her battered breath, Rosette likewise crumpled against the wall, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, dark with insomnia and plagued, anxiously nursing over her arm, her wrist, her hand, until at last the soldier could take it no longer, and tightly, bruisingly clutched her hand within hers, lacking any tonic or draught. Gradually, they began the return to Beauholm on foot, limping and aching beneath the cover of night.

"I do care for you," Rosette whimpered, wiping her soaked eyes on her buttoned sleeves. She felt as if it was the only thing she could say. Two lives, stolen by her hand, or nearly enough. But at the very least, she had saved one by having torn down Annie, sparing the soldier another night. Surely, if she truly wanted to hurt Dominique, or do her harm, she would not have spilt blood for her? She loved her. She desired her, feared her, needed her as a soldier needed carnage, but she would not hurt her, not matter how her desperation and loneliness devoured her. Surely, surely. The aphrodisiac administered into her drink had been moments of temporary insanity. But didn't the saying go―done once, and wickedness will sting twice?


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Neither girl had spoken to the other, long throughout the span of days following the ruined festivities. Saliette nursed a bitter grudge, whereas for herself, Victoria tended to a recovering, ugly-looking wound on her hand. It was really quite the shallow cut, her mother insisted, not requiring nearly half of her salves and salts, and to carry on any further as if mortally injured was childish. Elizabeth, a few evenings prior, had also taken aside her daughter that mayhaps, it would be wholly better for her to leave school; opportunitive, if she would. Dashing _Monsieur_ Luce had invited her to a private meeting some time ago, explaining patiently but firmly of her grades going to utter shambles. The classes were poisoning her mind, filling it with idle trivialities, and soon it would ruin her skin as well, rotting it from stress. In return for the lost hours, she would attend garden frilleries and holiday parties with religious fervor, in an effort to find her a groom to take her off her hands; for it must come to light, that she had outstayed her welcome long enough.

Furthermore, there was the issue with the corpse in her wardrobe. Victoria had caught the midnight thief rummaging around in her pantry, beating him fiercely with a fireplace poker, the stolen apple in his mouth proving, ironically, to work lovely as a gag. For the first time, she had taken a life, not simply of butterflies and fattened kittens she had been ordered to drown. As blackish blood rolled down the floorboards, for the first time, she had laid her hands on rags and cleant up the spills, finally burning them in the fire. She couldn't bury him. She could tell no one. The boy had blonde hair and missing teeth, from what she could tell from the swollen, caved wreck of his remaining face, and he wore clothes of a street urchin. Occasionally, she could even fancy him speaking to her in a Cockney jaunt, voice muffled by the heavy oak doors she had locked him behind.

"Now then, that warn't a quite kind thing to do for a lady o' your status, ain't it?" He would say one night, clear as a bell. She would sob into her pillow until she ached, and at last, his talking ceased.

Victoria feared she was going mad. Even worse, if seemed like the dead boy was the only one who could tolerate her presence now.

* * *

Ivan hadn't shown his face for days. Which was not an unusual occurrence in itself; the urchin often took his days of absence which often stretched into weeks, always returning with a grin and an armful of new delicacies to share between the three. It was useless, Robin knew, to worry and be weary. She had learned over the years to strain her ears for the sound of knocking at the window of the servants' quarters, and how to blindly unlock the doors with nimble fingers when he snuck in with a new prize. While there was no annual, agreed date, Henri always seemed to know, down in her marrow, of his arrival, and hastened to let her know without fail. Last week had been no different, the girl shaking her shoulder, hazel curls tumbled over her face as she excitedly whispered that he had returned. But no door open, no glass pane scratched, the night passing without a murmur, save for shared, anxious glances between them.

That gray evening, fireplace cleaning had been allotted to her, a terrible job which often ended with choking on ashes and coughing up dust for a week afterward. The black-haired brat was attending supper downstairs at the moment, and her room was left for the furniture's occupation. As she swept the burnt charcoal into the sack at her side, however, there were scraps of fabric caught amongst it. Red velvet? No, far too coarse; nor did it smell like perfume. It had a peculiar odor. No, it could more properly be called a _stench_ , pungent and raw―like that of animal entrails cooked in stews.

Rising from her knees, her eyes sharp and hungry, her curiosity led her on. Had the mistress smuggled herself a bowl of soup before bed? But that did not explain the fabric in her fire. Like the bird of her namesake―damnedable fowl, brown and plain, struck down, bloodied at its breast―she advanced, head cocked. And who was it, she thought grimly, who would murder this Robin?

Her shaking hands, poison-pale, gripped her sheets, tore them from the bare mattress, finding it in mint condition: unripped, unstained, unlike her lumpy cot with stuffing spilling out of its sides. She peered beneath, finding only an empty chamber pot. The ancient chest at the foot of her bed was filled with forgotten child toys and old quilts, but nothing odd. Finally, the wardrobe. The latch-hook took effort to undue, a great weight being pressed against it from the inside. Her fingers trembled, her breath shallow; she knew she had found her mystery scent's origin, but she feared, inexplicably, to open the doors. With a grunt, and a hard, two-handed pull, she tore open the door―

And found her dearest friend inside.

Nausea burned a silver-quick path up her throat, forcing her onto all fours, her knees buckling, her arms pale ribbons which crumbled at pressure as she was sick onto the carpet, her eyes drowned in the salt-water of tears, fear gnawing ravenously within her.

" _Ivan_ ―! Ivan, what have they _done_ to you?" She cried, unable to bear glancing upon him for a moment longer, but the memory was seared into her. His face was a fruit's pulp, stark red like the beef cuts she used to purchase every Tuesday, and bake it to a crisp, just so she could serve it to him later―she found herself vomiting twiceover, forcing the thought down into an ocean of darkness. She needed blackness, oblivion; she could not wallow in grief, she could not tell Henri, not yet, not while his killers devoured their dinner and sat upon the girl like a petite cushion. She craved anything to distract her, to keep her lungs functioning in their vital rhythm. Hatred simmered lowly from its sore and unhealed wound within her, provoked and infectious, writhing, pushing, impatient. Downstairs, her masters waited. Here, there was a box of matches in a drawer, beside the frilled stationary. Hatred and vengeance was infinitely better than sorrow.

Nobles. Aristocrats. Murderers.

"Burn like dogs," Robin murmured, and dropped the first match.

* * *

She was quite the fond courtesan of death, bedding thanatos in all its vile glories. Victoria knew from the start, she was a child fated for unhappiness. Tempted to smother her own step-sister in her slumber, countless times, a pale wench who posed among animal masks and harbored the most bloodlust of them all.

A fire was burning heartily in her room by the time she returned from her supper, her guest locked securely away. The smell of smoke drowned out his complaints, at least. She slept lightly, restlessly, dreaming she had been hopelessly knotted and entangled by a thousand tendrils of a sea-dwelling creature, when was she roughly roused with a stinging, sharp slap across one cheek.

Her step-sister, a ghost in pale pastels, was yanking at her hand, so hard the knob of her wrist was nearly twisted out of its place. Looking around deliriously, she could see the flames lashing out over her curtains and fine silk pillows, her porcelain dolls with china cheeks, her solitary friends.

"Come, hurry! Else the flames will―" The fact that Saliette cared enough at all to resuscitate her gave Victoria a mild surprise, but whatever she had to say, she would hear none of it.

"No, thank you." Victoria shook her weary head, a formal, tired politeness in her tone. "I think I need a bit more sleep. Ah―could you hand me the covers? I'm a bit cold―"

Saliette's face contorted in a shriek as she pulled at her, stubborn anchor, but the crackling of flames deafened her.

"No, I'm too tired. I'm sure for the first time, in a long time, I'll be free of nightmares, just once. I might even be able to see a sweet dream. Can you recall, we once promised a picnic? By the blue, clear river with shortcakes and honey―"

Victoria remained put, and her false sibling had no choice but to release her as a shower of sparks flew between them. The smoke burnt her throat, blurred her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Then, nothing.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

The wasted look about Anya's cheeks, her violent coughing fits, dotted with blood, her inappetite had been clinically diagnosed as consumption, but also, they secretly knew, heartbreak advanced the war-path of her disease. Along with starvation, and polluted air. The answer, the doctor said, was the countryside. It would not save her, merely prolong the girl's life a bit. Maybe a week, maybe months. It would not be long, he said, but it would come silently; in her sleep, perhaps, if fortune smiled on her.

"From adored queen, to Sapphist whore, then ousted wretch, and now a leper. But I do not mind being a leper―" She winced, stifled a shuddering fit. "―No. That is a lie. I mind it! I loathe it! I want to live―if even I have the right, murderer of my sibling, burden on my soldier. I wanted to roam my country home, with a simple life, without the oppression of power. I wanted to laugh, to hold a lover of my own choosing. I have been a coward."

"Sleep," Her hand soothed the curve of her sweaty forehead. "Hold slumber for now, Anya. No more talk of regrets and wretchedness."

Once her breathing became light and slow, Dominique closed the door of her private room, for she had been sequestered away to the farthest room, in brittle attempts to halt the deterioration from advancing onto them.

"We are retiring to my uncle's villa sooner than I thought. Everything is packed?" She asked Rosette, who was puffing fiercely on her rolled cigarette, in a desperate attempt for peace after tonics and pills refused to affect her.

"Everything. Dishes, dresses, anything I have. Your jacket and uniform is as well, in your own bag." She murmured, choking on the purplish smoke. "Dominique, I am sorry!" She burst, at last. "Everything inflicted upon you and the Que―Anyaliavich, is my fault! I poisoned you, I murdered that poor girl, my brother, and now these poor conditions have sickened my ward to death! I am truly and wholly insane with lusts towards you!"

Her hand gripped her cigarette, tossing it into the fire, and she gave her a fearsome shake. "How can I convince you!" She demanded. "I have already forgiven you, so how can I absolve you of your guilt! How can I make you believe, I still always stay by your side! You are not a monster, but a girl made flesh! You are not a whore, nor a madhouse lunatic capturing canaries! You need not tremble for the consequences of my absence, for there will be none!"

"How can I? How can you devote yourself to a wretch like me! I poisoned you! I may still, again!" She shook her head, wrenching her cheek away from her firm fingers, taking her chin upwards.

"You do not frighten me. I will tell you, Rosette, everything that frightens me. I am often a child, afraid of autumn meadows and guns and my own blood. I am afraid of men forcing themselves upon me in the most brutal manner. I am afraid of intimacy of not simply the flesh, but of the heart, and for decades, I have worn an iron casing over my own emotions. You have not cracked and broken me, but softened me! Mended me. I only wish to do the same for you."

Rosette, at last, appeared to calm, still, but her gaze was still anxious. "Truly? You can love me, after everything?"

"I have murdered, and raped, and stolen, and lied; I should say the same. The soldier is not a glorious occupation, but one I am drawn to, inescapably. I would take you to bed, if I thought it would help, but tonight―in two night's worth, we three will make our departure."

"I cannot believe it," Rosette mumbled, soft as mist. "Not so soon. My guilt must be carried away in pieces, not solely for one other person to bear, besides. But perhaps, the passage of time will lessen it."

Pale hands reached up and brushed Dominique's dark eyes, suddenly welling with vulnerability, the strong taste of salt, weeping water spilling down her cheeks. The black cloth of Rosette's sleeve still had the tag on the cuff; it had cost her three weeks worth of wages, yet her fingers were already brittle against gunpowder-blackened flesh. A strangled sob was muffled into the lace of Rosette's collar, the noise of discernable by the harsh grinding of teeth and subtle trembling of the bowed spine as they embraced tightly, tighter still.

Without the adornments of medals, the heavy uniform jacket, pale gloves and cap, Dominique was seen as little more than a passive woman. With a rifle in her hands, she was a murderer of the country, a glorified executioner for their child-royalty. But with Rosette held in her arms, she was solely herself, with all her grotesque qualities and loveliness alike. The possibilities of children had already been lost, with two wombs and no contributing seed, but the brief flicker of a future burnt all the same, a small warmth.


	19. Epilogue

Summers in Marcine were always extraordinarily hot: ripened fruit swollen on their branches, rotting for errant birds to pluck at their whims; the fragrance of olive branches mingling with the sun, baking off the shimmering, glassy lake; the trill of cicadas and the firefly waltz during violet nights. It had been a single short year since the executions of so many royal parties; in the face of red rebellion, punishments had been blind―they had just barely managed to avoid imprisonment themselves, escorted out of the country on a secretive, handsomely-rewarded carriage. The land still bore marks of bloodshed and unrest, and although the most violent eruptions of inter-country fighting had temporarily ceased, another war brewed on the scarlet horizon; a matter of mere time. So was the news passed along the gossip-vine, since the toppling of the late Anyaliavich's reign. Soon enough, Dominique would have to don her post, but at the moment―

Rosette had managed to turn out a meager profit from her fruit orchids, but every coin was one better than poverty; she was holding her head higher than she had as a love-sickened child, a modest sense of pride blooming in her heart. As for Dominique, she no longer donned the colonel's uniform in peacetimes, and continued dressing in masculine clothing both in and out of the home, if simply out of sheer habit and comfort. Her right hand had never fully recovered, a difficult stiffness settling into it over the months, and throbs of pain, as if an old heartbeat tearing at aching scars, would begin to act up if she forced it.

The villa itself was modest, considering its lineage. Eighteen rooms, with perhaps three being regularly used, and one serving as storage, although many remained untouched as remnants of the past. Her grandfather, she had learned, had perished years before her return, and now stood vast and empty for their sole use, once Anya had succumbed to her worsening health. It was a modest happiness, but one she cherished endlessly, her gratitude unwavering, each morning she awoke beside a warm girl entangled in her arms.

"Are you happy? Truly, honestly?" Rosette would ask her, fussing over her slice of kidney pie and overcooked vegetables, or rhubarb and strawberry, picked fresh. And later, Dominique would tenderly touch away her worries, slowly and surely drawing the poison from her thoughts.

Tonight, Dominique saw the familiar shadows of ancient demons lurking in the common girl's eyes, and discarded her silverware, laying her hand upon hers instead. "Thank you, Rosette. It's wonderful."

Let the war come as it may. She had a thousand reasons to be victorious.


End file.
